b  3  S7s  m« 


SELECTED  WRITINGS 
OF  WILLIAM    SHARP 

UNIFORM  EDITION 
ARRANGED  BY 
Mrs.  WILLIAM  SHARP 

VOLUME  V 


VISTAS 

THE  GYPSY  CHRIST  AND 
OTHER  PROSE  IMAGININGS 
BY    WILLIAM    SHARP 


SELECTED    AND     ARRANGED    BY 

MRS.  WILLIAM  SHARP 


NEW  YORK 

DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 

1912 


Copyright,  1894,  by 
STONE  &  KIMBALL 

Copyright,  1912,  by 
DUFFIELD    &    COMPANY 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 

Vistas 

page 

Foreword 3 

Finis n 

The  Passion  of  Pere  Hilarion    .        ...    23 

The  Birth  of  a  Soul 51 

A  Northern  Night 63 

The  Black  Madonna 93 

The  Last  Quest 119 

The  Fallen  God 129 

The  Coming  of  the  Prince 137 

The  Passing  of  Lilith 151 

The    Lute-Player 169 

The  Whisperer 183 

PART  II 

From  Madge  0'  the  Pool 

Madge  o'  the  Pool:  A  Thames  Etching     .     .  197 

The  Gypsy  Christ 247 

The  Lady  in  Hosea 313 

PART  III 

ecce  puella  and  other  prose  imaginings 

•Ecce  Puella 333 

Fragments  from  the  Lost  Journals  of  Piero 

di  Cosimo 379 

The  Birth,  Death  and  Resurrection  of  a  Tear  413 

The  Hill- Wind 425 

Love  in  a  Mist 435 

The  Sister  of  Compassion 451 

The  Merchant  of  Dreams 459 

Bibliographical   Note 483 


262731 


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•  •      •  •••••,  •••  ••  •  •    • 

•  •    •      •••••••••••    •• 

•  *••••••  •       ••*  •  •»»      •  ••*• 


PART  I 
Vistas 


FOREWORD 

To  H.  M.  Alden 

In  dedicating  to  you  this  American  edition 
of  "  Vistas "  I  am  in  the  position  of  one  of 
those  islanders  of  old  who  offered  their  rude 
iron  in  exchange  for  wrought  gold.  They, 
however,  bartered  in  all  innocence:  while  I,  for 
my  part,  know-  too  well  that  nothing  you  can 
iind  herein  can  give  you  the  same  deep  and 
lasting  pleasure  I  have  had  in  your  beautiful 
and  moving  book, —  the  book  of  a  lifelong 
dream,  of  a  lifetime  reverie,  full  of  strange 
beauty,  spiritual,  wrought  out  of  lovely 
thoughts  into  lovely  words. 

How  well  I  remember  the  day  when  I  first 
saw  the  Hudson  in  its  autumnal  glory!  But 
memorable  as  that  day  is,  shared  with  you  and 
a  dear  common  friend,  poet  and  veteran 
critic, —  in  the  "  sixties  "  now,  so  far  as  years 
go,  but  in  the  wonderful  "  twenties "  in  all 
else,— my  most  living  memory  is  of  those 
proof-sheets  of  "  The  Following  Love  "  which 
were  entrusted  to  me,  and  made  upon  my  mind 
so  indelible  an  impression.1 

1  Now,  and  so  far  less  happily,  surely,  called  "  God 
in  his  World'*  (Harpers'). 

3 


Foreword 

Two  years  later  I  was  with  you  again,  when 
the  shadow  of  ill  lay  almost  more  darkly  upon 
you  yourself  than  upon  the  blithe,  heroic  suf- 
ferer: and  by  that  time  I  knew  your  book 
intimately,  and  had  learned  much  from  it. 
Then,  too,  I  was  able  to  show  you  one  of  these 
"  Vistas/'  and  to  hear  generous  words  in  praise 
of  what  at  best  was  a  passing  breath  of  music, 
as  fugitive,  and  perhaps  as  meaningless  to 
most  people,  as  those  faint  airs  heard  by  my 
charcoal-burner  in  the  forest,  as  intangible  as 
that  odour  of  white  violets  which  came  and 
went  with  each  delicate  remote  strain. 

You  asked  me  then  what  my  aim  was  in 
those  " dramatic  interludes'"  which,  collect- 
ively, I  call  "  Vistas."  I  coxdd  not  well  ex- 
plain: nor  can  I  do  so  now.  After  all,  I 
could  make  only  a  redundant  use  of  the  title. 
All  are  vistas  into  the  inner  life  of  the  human 
soul,  psychic  episodes.  One  or  two  are  di- 
rectly auto  psychical,  others  are  renderings  of 
dramatically  conceived  impressions  of  spiritual 
emotion;  to  two  or  three  no  quotation  could 
be  more  apt  than  that  of  the  Spanish  novelist, 
Emilia  Par  do  Bazan:  "Enter  with  me  into 
the  dark  zone  of  the  human  soul."  These 
"Vistas"  were  written  at  intervals:  the  most 
intimate,  in  the  spiritual  sense,  so  long  ago  as 
the  spring  of   1886,  when,  during  recovery 


Foreword 

from  a  long  and  nearly  fatal  illness,  "  Lilith  " 
came  to  me  as  a  vision  and  was  withheld  in 
words  as  soon  as  I  could  put  pen  to  paper. 
Another  was  written  in  Rome,  after  a  vain 
effort  to  express  adequately  in  a  different 
form  the  episode  of  death-menaced  and  death- 
haunted  love  among  those  remote  Scottish 
wilds  where  so  much  of  my  childhood  and 
boyhood  and  early  youth  was  spent.  Some  of 
my  critics  say  that  "  Vistas  "  is  but  an  English 
reflection  of  the  Maeterlinckian  fire.  Two  of 
the  most  Maeterlinckian  are,  by  those  critics, 
held  to  be  "A  Northern  Night"  and  "The 
Passing  of  Lilith," — creations,  if  such  they 
may  be  called,  anterior  to  the  fortunate  hour 
when  I  came  for  the  first  time  upon  "La 
Princesse  Maleine  "  and  "  L'Intruse." 

I  say  "  the  fortunate  hour,"  for  almost  from 
the  first  moment  it  seemed  clear  to  me  that  the 
Belgian  poet-dramatist  had  introduced  a  new 
and  vital  literary  form.  It  is  one  that  many 
had  been  seeking, —  stumblingly,  among  them, 
the  author  of  "  Vistas" —  but  Maurice  Mae- 
terlinck wrought  the  crude  material  into  a 
form  fit  for  swift  and  dexterous  use,  at  once 
subtle  and  simple.  The  exaggerations  of  his 
admirable  method  were  obvious  from  the  first; 
in  "  L'Intruse  "  even,  more  markedly  in  "  Les 
Aveugles"   unmistakably   in   "La   Princesse 


Foreword 

Maleine:"  and,  it  must  be  added,  still  more 
prominently  in  his  later  productions.  But  he 
saw  that  there  was  a  borderland  for  the  Im- 
agination, between  the  realms  of  Prose  and 
Poetry.  He  discerned  the  need,  even  though 
it  should  be  but  the  occasional  need, —  for 
after  all  it  is  only  an  addition  to  the  old  for- 
mulas that  we  seek, —  of  a  more  elastic  method 
than  any  exercised  in  our  day,  one  that  would 
not  restrict  the  elusive  imagination  nor  yet 
burden  it  with  verbal  juggleries  and  license. 
There  is  room  for  the  Imagination  in  Prose: 
there  is  room  for  the  Imagination  in  Verse: 
there  is  room,  also,  for  the  Imagination  in  the 
vague,  misty,  beautiful  borderlands.  Of 
course  there  is  nothing  radically  new  in  M. 
Maeterlinck's  method.  The  Greek  dramatists, 
the  French,  and,  among  others,  Calderon  nota- 
bly, have  all  preceded  him:  the  miracle-plays 
are  "  Maeterlinckian: "  the  actual  form  as  now 
identified  with  his  name  was  first  used  by  his 
contemporary,  Charles  Van  Lerberghe,  in 
"  Les  Flaireurs"  Probably  there  is  never  any 
quite  new  literary  method.  Certainly  the 
greatest  writers  were  not  creators  of  the  form 
or  forms  they  adopted:  Aeschylus,  Sophocles, 
Euripides,  Shakespeare,  Racine,  Goethe,  Hugo. 
'But  after  all,  these  things  matter  little.  The 
"  form"  be  it  what  it  may,  is  open  to  all.    Our 

6 


Foreword 

concern  should  be,  not  with  the  accident  of 
formal  similitude,  but  with  the  living  and  con- 
vincing reality  behind  the  form,  created  or 
adapted  or  frankly  adopted.  No  one  would 
dream  of  an  imputation  upon  a  poet's  original- 
ity if  he  choose  to  express  himself  in  the 
sonnet  form,  the  most  hackneyed  of  all  verse- 
formulas  and  yet  virginal  to  each  new  wooer 
who  is  veritably  son  to  Apollo. 

A  great  creative  period  is  at  hand.  Prob- 
ably a  great  dramatic  epoch.  But  what  will 
for  one  thing  differentiate  it  from  any  prede- 
cessor is  the  new  complexity,  the  new  subtlety, 
in  apprehension,  in  formative  conception,  in 
imaginative  rendering. 

William  Sharp. 

1894. 


Enter  with  me  into  the  dark 
zone    of    the    human    soul. 

— Emilia  Pardo  Bazan. 


Finis 


.  .  .  Blood  for  blood, 

Bitter  requital  on  the  dead  is  fallen. 

Euripides:  Electra. 


FINIS 

[An  obscure  wood,  at  whose  frontiers  nei- 
ther night  nor  day  prevails,  but  only  a 
dread  twilight,  a  brief  way  beyond  the 
portals  of  the  Grave.  In  the  vast  vault 
overhead  no  cloud  moveth,  no  star 
shineth.] 

THE   PHANTOM   OF  THE   MAN 

The  shadows  deepen. 

THE   SOUL  OF  THE   MAN 

[Blind  with  the  darkness  of  death.]     On! 
On! 

THE   PHANTOM 

This  way  let  us  go. 

THE   SOUL 

Chill,   chill,   the   breath    from  the   Grave. 
Would  that  I  too  were  dead. 

THE   PHANTOM 

The  wood  is  dark,  and  the  shadows  deepen. 

THE   SOUL 

Canst   thou    see   nought?    Dost   thou    see 
nothing? 

THE   PHANTOM 

I  see  nought.     I  see  no  one. 

THE  SOUL 

This  awful  silence! 
ii 


William  Sharp 

THE   PHANTOM 

Two  shadows  only  —  two  shadows  in  the 
Hollow  Land  that  move.     We  are  they. 

THE   SOUL 

Dost  thou  not  hear  ? 

THE   PHANTOM 

What? 

THE   SOUL 

Afar  off,  as  in  the  heart  of  the  wood,  a 
strange  sighing. 

THE   PHANTOM 

Is  it  the  wind  of  Death  ? 

THE   SOUL 

Is  it  the  perishing  lamentation  of  the  dead  ? 

THE   PHANTOM 

I  see  vast  avenues  penetrating  the  darkness 
of  the  wood. 

THE   SOUL 

And  there  is  no  one  there?  There  is 
nought  visible? 

THE   PHANTOM 

No  shadow  moves.  No  branch  stirs.  But 
always,  always,  leaves,  are  falling :  shadowless, 
soundless. 

THE  SOUL 

Let  us  go  back :  let  us  go  back !  It  may  be 
that  in  the  Grave  there  is  a  place  of  rest! 

12 


Finis 

THE   PHANTOM 

I  see  the  portals  no  more.     A  mist  has  risen. 

THE   SOUL 

What  lies  behind  us? 

THE   PHANTOM 

Dim  avenues.  No  shadow  moves.  No 
branch  stirs.  But  always,  always,  leaves  are 
falling:  shadowless,  soundless. 

THE   SOUL 

Which  way  came  we? 

THE   PHANTOM 

I  know  not. 

THE  SOUL 

Whither  go  we? 

THE   PHANTOM 

I  know  not. 

THE   SOUL 

Did  we  perish  ere  we  entered  the  dark  way 
of  the  Grave? 

THE   PHANTOM 

The  body  died. 

THE   SOUL 

[Terrified.]     Who  art  thou? 

THE   PHANTOM 


Thou. 


[The    Soul    of    the    Man    staggers    wildly 
away,  with  outstretched  arms,  with  lips 

13 


William  Sharp 

moving  in  agony,  but  silent.  The  Phan- 
tom of  the  Man  stands  motionless.  In 
a  brief  while  the  Soul  has  wandered  in 
a  circle  back  to  the  place  whence  it 
started.] 

THE   PHANTOM 

The  shadows  deepen.     Let  us  go. 

THE  SOUL 

[In  the  bitterness  of  anguish.]  I  am  as  a 
leaf  blown  by  the  wind. 

[They  move  through  the  gloom  of  a  vast 
avenue.  There  is  no  sound,  no  stir,  no 
shadow,  though  ever  there  are  falling 
leaves  that  fade  into  the  under-dark- 
ness.  From  afar,  within  the  hollow  of 
the  wood,  there  comes  a  faint  sighing, 
that  is  as  the  sea  in  calm  or  as  a  wind 
that  swoons  upon  the  pastures,  but  is 
not  any  wind  that  breathes  on  any  sea.] 

THE   SOUL 

Doth  it  grow  more  dark  ? 

THE   PHANTOM 

There  is  no  change.  It  is  neither  day  nor 
night.  But  far  away  the  avenues  reach  into 
utter  blackness. 

THE  SOUL 

Doth  a  wind  blow  in  the  Shadow  of  Death  ? 

THE   PHANTOM 

No  wind  bloweth  through  the  Hollow  Land, 
14 


Finis 

though  from  the  darkness  beyond  cometh  a 
faint  sighing. 

THE   SOUL 

Dead  prayers  —  dead  hopes  —  dead  dreams ! 

[A  long  silence:   and  still  the  twain  move 

down  the  sombre  avenues  of  the  wood. 

There   is   no   sound,   no   stir  —  only  the 

fall   of   leaves   forever   and   ever.] 

THE   PHANTOM 

A  great  weakness  is  come  upon  me.     I  can 
fare  no  further. 

THE  SOUL 

[Terrified.]     Leave  me  not  alone!     Leave 
me  not!     Leave  me  not! 

THE   PHANTOM 

Behold,  another  cometh.     I  perish. 

[The  soul  stretched  out  its  hands  to  its 
fellow,  but  nought  can  stay  the  fading 
and  the  falling  of  the  leaf.  From 
another  avenue  come  two  figures,  the 
one  leading  the  other.] 

THE   PHANTOM    OF   THE  WOMAN 

I  am  weary  of  the  long  quest.     As  a  leaf 
goeth  before  the  wind,  I  go. 

THE   SOUL  OF   THE   WOMAN 

Leave  me  not  alone !  Leave  me  not !   Leave 
me  not. 

[The  Soul  of  the  Woman  stretcheth  out  its 
hands  to  its  fellow,  but  nought  can  stay 
the  fading  and  the  falling  of  the  leaf.] 

15 


William  Sharp 

THE  SOUL  OF  THE  MAN 

[  Whispering.]     O  Death,  give  me  thy  sting ! 
O  Grave,  suffer  me  to  be  thy  victim ! 

THE  SOUL  OF   THE   WOMAN 

Where  art  thou?    Where  art  thou  —  thou 
who  wast  myself? 

[The  Soul  of  the  Man  stops,  trembles,  lis- 
tens intently.  Through  the  profound 
silence  the  leaves  fall,  but  none  seeth; 
for  the  Soul  of  the  Man  is  blind,  and 
blind    the  Soul  of  the  Woman.] 

THE  SOUL  OF  THE   MAN 

[In  deep  awe.]     Doth  aught  pass  by? 

[Profound  silence.] 

THE  SOUL  OF  THE  MAN 

For  the  love  of  life,  I  beseech  thee,  art 
thou,  who  art  in  the  silence,  even  as  I  am  ? 

[Profound  silence.] 

THE  SOUL  OF  THE   MAN 

[In  terror.]     It  is  Death. 

[Profound  silence.] 

THE  SOUL  OF  THE  WOMAN 

[In  a  low  whisper.]  At  last!    At  last! 

[Slowly  the  Soul  of  the  Woman  advances. 
The  Soul  of  the  Man  listens  intently,  and 
an  awful  fear  is  upon  him.] 

THE  SOUL  OF  THE   MAN 

Speak,  thou  that  comest! 
16 


Finis 

[There  is  a  faint  echo  as  of  a  rustling 
sound.] 

It  is  leaves  blown  by  the  wind ! 

[There  is  an  echo  as  of  a  rustling  sound, 
nearer,  and  nearer,   and  nearer.] 

What  art  thou? 

[The  faint  rustling  steps  are  close  by. 
With  tremulous,  groping  hands  the  Soul 
of  the  Man  moves  away,  and  then,  par- 
alyzed with  terror,  goes  no  further.  He 
hears  the  faint  steps  encircling  him, 
slowly,  slowly.  It  is  as  of  one  groping 
blindly.] 

THE  SOUL  OF  THE  WOMAN 

[Whispering.]     It  is  he! 

THE  SOUL  OF  THE  MAN 

Who  spoke?     Who  comes?     Oh,  my  God, 
why  hast  Thou  forsaken  me? 

[A  low,  thin  sighing  from  afar  in  the  dark- 
ness of  the  wood,  as  though  of  all  dead 
prayers,    dead   hopes,    dead    dreams.] 

THE   SOUL  OF   THE   MAN 

[Crying  shrilly  in  his  terror.]     Who  comes? 
Who  comes? 

[The  Soul  of  the  Woman  draws  nigh,  till 
it  stands  beside  the  other.  Then  with 
outstretched  arms  she  gropes  for  him 
whom  she  seeketh.  The  Soul  of  the 
the  Man  cowers,  sobbing  in  agony.] 

17 


William  Sharp 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE   WOMAN 

Thou  knowest. 

THE   SOUL  OF  THE   MAN 

Oh,  God!    Oh,  God! 

THE  SOUL  OF  THE  WOMAN 

Yea,  even  so  at  the  last,  for  death  cometh 
unto  all. 

THE   SOUL  OF  THE   MAN 

Have  pity  upon  me,  Agatha!  Hast  thou 
come  to  slay? 

THE  SOUL  OF  THE  WOMAN 

Thou  knowest. 

THE  SOUL  OF  THE   MAN 

Death !    Death ! 

THE  SOUL  OF  THE  WOMAN 

I  have  waited  long. 

THE  SOUL  OF   THE   MAN 

My  sin  —  my  sin  —  is  there  no  expiation? 

THE  SOUL  OF  THE   WOMAN 

Yea,  verily,  at  the  last. 

THE  SOUL  OF  THE   MAN 

Oh,  inner  heart  of  hell ! 

THE  SOUL   OF   THE   WOMAN 

There  is  no  heaven  and  no  hell  but  upon  the 
earth.  And  unto  some  is  heaven,  and  unto 
some  is  hell :  but  woe  unto  those  by  whom  hell 

18 


Finis 

is  wrought  for  another,  for  his  end  is  undying 
death  and  the  horror  of  the  grave. 

THE   SOUL   OF   THE    MAN 

Have  mercy  upon  me! 

THE   SOUL   OF   THE   WOMAN 

Thou  wert  my  hell. 

THE   SOUL   OF   THE   MAN 

Have  mercy  upon  me! 

THE   SOUL  OF   THE   WOMAN 

Thou  didst  take  the  fresh  life  and  pollute  it 
with  evil  —  thou  didst  seek  me  out  to  defile  me 
—  thou  didst  fling  me  into  the  mire  and 
trample  upon  me  —  thou  didst  laugh  me  to 
scorn  and  drag  me  through  the  depths  —  and 
at  the  last,  when  once,  only  once,  one  gleam  of 
brightness,  one  gleam  of  joy,  came  to  me,  thou 
didst  foul  it  as  ^death  corrupts  the  carrion  of 
the  body,  and  didst  work  for  me  woe  within 
woe,  and  hell  within  hell. 

[The  Soul  of  the  Man  suddenly  throws  his 
arms  on  high  as  though  to  ward  a  blow : 
then  stoops,  and  flees  like  the  wind 
down  a  sombre  avenue  of  the  obscure 
wood.  For  minutes,  for  hours  —  he 
knoweth  not,  he  careth  not  —  he  goeth 
thus.  Then,  all  at  once,  he  stops;  for 
nearer,  nearer,  he  hears  the  sighing  from 
the  midmost  of  the  darkness,  the  sigh- 
ing as  of  dead  prayers,  dead  hopes,  dead 

19 


William  Sharp 

dreams.     Suddenly  there  is  a  faint  sound 
as  of  blown  leaves.     It  draweth  near.] 

THE  SOUL  OF   THE   WOMAN 

For  thou  hast  wrought  woe  within  woe  for 
me,  and  hell  within  hell. 

[The  Soul  of  the  Man  staggers  dumbly, 
stretches  forth  unavailing  arms,  and 
knoweth  the  agony  of  the  second  death. 
Then  wildly,  and  with  a  triumphing 
cry—] 

At  the  least  I  slew  him  —  at  the  least  I 
strangled  him  where  he  lay ! 

THE  SOUL  OF   THE   WOMAN 

Was  it  thus  ? 

[With  a  strange  perishing  cry  the  Soul  of 
the  Woman  springs  upon  the  other,  and, 
clasping  with  both  hands,  strangles  the 
Soul  of  the  Man. 
And  in  the  sombre  twilight  of  the  vast  ave- 
nues of  the  wood  there  is  no  sound;  and 
in  the  darkness  nought  stirs,  save  the 
leaves  falling  forever,  forever.  Only 
from  afar,  in  the  uttermost  darkness, 
there  is  a  low  sighing,  that  passeth  not, 
that  changeth  not,  and  is  as  the  vanish- 
ing breath  of  dead  prayers,  dead  hopes, 
dead  dreams.] 


20 


The  Passion  of  Pere  Hilarion 


SlRIA 

Votre  amour  lui  serait  Vorage. 

Nurh 

Je  I'aime. 

Siria 

Malheur  a  lui. 

Nurh 

Je  I'aime. 

Siria 

Malheur  a  vous. 

Le  Barbare. 


THE  PASSION   OF  P£RE  HILARION. 

[A  small,  dark  room,  opening  from  the  Sac- 
risty of  the  Church  of  Notre  Dame,  in 
the  village  of  Haut-Pre,  on  the  French 
side  of  the  Meuse.  In  the  room,  which 
is  windowless,  there  is  no  light  save  the 
dull,  yellow  flicker  from  an  iron  cruse 
suspended  from  the  low  roof.  Nought 
else  is  visible  save  a  small  iron  bell  jut- 
ting out  above  the  door,  connected  with 
the  outside  by  a  string  passing  through 
a  hole  in  the  highest  panel,  and,  on  the 
further  wall,  a  heavy  metal  crucifix. 
On  the  floor  a  man,  in  a  priest's  robes, 
lies  at  full  length,  face  downward. 
Every  now  and  then  a  convulsive  shud- 
der passes  over  his  frame.  He  has  lain 
thus  for  long,  uttering  no  words,  but 
praying  silently  with  a  passion  that  rends 
him.  At  last,  with  a  low,  sobbing  sigh, 
Hilarion  the  priest  rises,  stands  passively 
for  a  few  moments,  and  then  slowly 
advances  till  he  is  close  to  the  crucifix.] 

HILARION 

Wilt  Thou  not  hearken  to  my  cry,  O  Thou 
who  savest? 

23 


William  Sharp 

[A  faint,  dull  resonance  of  his  voice  haunts 
the  room  for  a  few  moments;  then  si- 
lence as  of  the  tomb.] 

HILARION 

[  With  broken,  supplicating  voice.]  O  Thou 
who  hast  passioned,  wilt  Thou  not  have  pity 
upon  me  in  this  mine  agony?  Lord,  Lord, 
wilt  Thou  not  save?  Lo,  I  am  younger  than 
Thou  wert  when  Thy  bloody  sweat  fell  in 
Gethsemane!  Have  compassion  upon  me,  O 
Christ  compassionate!  I  am  but  a  man,  and 
the  burden  of  my  manhood,  the  bitter  burden 
of  my  youth,  is  heavy  upon  me. 

[The  dull,  fading  echo  of  a  human  voice; 
then  silence  as  of  the  grave.] 

HILARION 

Speak,  Lord. 

Show  me  a  sign! 

O  Thou  who  wast  crucified  for  me,  hearken ! 

0  Friend,  O  Brother,  O  Heavenly  Love,  I 
beseech  Thee! 

Jesus,  Son  of  Mary,  wilt  Thou  not  hear? 

1  cry  to  Thee,  O  Son  of  God ! 
I  cry  to  Thee,  O  Son  of  Man ! 

[He  bows  his  head,  and  waits  for  he  knows 
not  what,  his  lips  twitching,  and  hands 
clasping  and  unclasping.  Then,  sud- 
denly:] 

24 


The  Passion  of  Pere  Hilarion 

What  wilt  Thou,  O  Son  of  Man?    Am  I 
not  Thy  Brother? 

[Leaning   forward,   and    speaking  slowly:] 

Art  Thou  dead  indeed,  O  Thou  who  was 
crucified  ? 

[The  dull  beat  of  sound  around  the  walls: 
then   silence   as   of  deep   night.] 

I  perish! 

Stretch  forth  Thy  hand  and  save ! 

I  perish ! 

[Faintly  round  the  tomb-like  walls  breathes 
the  echo  of  the  word:  Perish.  Then 
silence,   chill   and   still  as  death.] 

I  am  but  a  man,  O  God ! 
I  am  but  a  man,  O  Christ ! 
My  sin  is  oversweet,  and  the  world  calls  me, 
and  I  die  daily,  hourly,  yea,  every  bitter  mo- 
ment! 

[With  a  fierce  cry,  and  wild  gesture  with 
his  arms:] 

What  wouldst  Thou?    Doth  not  my  neck 
break  beneath  the  yoke? 

[Suddenly  he  throws  his  priestly  robe  from 
off  him.  Beneath  he  has  but  a  garment 
of  hair  and  coarse  serge,  girt  round  the 
waist  by  a  long  rope  heavily  knotted. 
This  also  he  removes,  and  then  winds 
one    end    of    the    rope    round    his    right 

25 


William  Sharp 

wrist.  With  swift  sweep  he  swings  the 
knotted  rope  above  his  head,  and  brings 
it  down  upon  his  quivering  sides. 
Slowly  and  steadily  the  knotted  rope 
rises,  circles,  falls;  moment  after  mo- 
ment, minute  after  minute.  At  the  last, 
one,  two,  three  of  the  great  weals  along 
the  man's  back  and  sides  break,  and  the 
flesh  hangs  purple-red,  and  the  blood 
runs  in  thin  scarlet  streams  down  his 
thighs.  Then,  with  a  low  cry,  he  throws 
down  the  rope  and  sinks  on  his  knees, 
quivering  with  agony  and  exhaustion.] 

HILARION 

[With  a  low,  choking  sob.]  "Come  unto 
Me,  ye  that  are  weary  and  heavy-laden,  and  I 
will  give  you  rest." 

[The  bell  over  the  door  clangs  loudly.  The 
priest  slowly  rises,  puts  on  his  hair  shirt 
and  stanches  the  blood  as  best  he  can, 
girds  the  rope  about  his  waist,  and  dons 
again  his  long  black  robes.  He  is  calm 
now,  and  deathly  pale.  Before  he  leaves, 
the  Penitents'  room  he  makes  a  grave 
obeisance  before  the  crucifix,  but  in  si- 
lence and  with  downcast  eyes.  He  goes 
forth,  and  through  the  Sacristy  to  a  side 
door,  opening  on  to  a  wide,  deserted  vil- 
lage street.  He  stands  in  the  doorway, 
looking  out  as  in  a  dream.  The  day  is 
far  spent,  and  the  shadows  gather  and 
lengthen.    In  an  old  inn,  opposite,  from 

26 


The  Passion  of  Pere  Hilarion 

an  open  window,  comes  a  woman's  joy- 
ous laughter.  The  priest  does  not  move, 
and  seems  neither  to  hear  nor  to  see. 
A  little  later,  the  deep  voice  of  a  man 
slowly  chants  to  a  strange,  monotonous 
tune :] 

"  Elle  est  retrouvee. 
Quoif    V  eternite. 
Cest  la  mer  allee. 
Avec  le  soleil." x 

[The  priest  Hilarion  abruptly  turns  away, 
muttering,  as  though  in  fierce  pain,  Oh, 
God!  Oh,  God!  He  passes  into  the 
Sacristy,  and  stands  idly  by  a  desk, 
brooding  on  the  thing  that  is  in  his 
mind.  A  bell  suddenly  rings  again. 
The  sacristan  enters  and  says  that  a 
woman  is  at  the  third  confessional,  and 
asks  for  Father  Hilarion.  He  slowly 
leaves,  and  walks  down  the  aisle  toward 
his  place,  with  bent  head  and  heavy 
steps.  As  he  reaches  the  box  he  looks 
back  through  the  church  toward  the 
altar,  where  a  young  priest  is  leisurely 
lighting  the  candles.  Below  his  breath 
he   mutters:] 

Avec  le  soleil." 
[He  enters  the  box  and  seats  himself.    A 

"Cest  la  mer  allee 
1"Les  Illuminations." 

27 


William  Sharp 

woman  —  veiled  —  tall,  young,  and  with 
a  figure  of  strange  grace  and  beauty,  is 
on  her  knees.] 

HILARION 

[Quietly.]     My  daughter. 

THE   WOMAN 

[Hurriedly.]     My  father,  my  heart  is  .  .  . 

HILARION 

[Abruptly  rising,  but  seating  himself  again.] 
Anais ! 

ANAIS 

Yes,  Father  Hilarion,  it  is  I.  No,  no,  I 
cannot  call  you  so! 

HILARION 

Hush !  Anais,  God  is  pitiful.  We  will  pray 
for  His  help,  and  that  of  His  holy  Son,  and 
that  of  the  Blessed  Mary. 

anaIs 
There  is  no  help  but  in  ourselves. 

HILARION 

Here  we  are  as  shadows  in  a  fevered  dream. 
The  voice  of  Eternity.  .  .  . 

[Stops  abruptly,  as  in  his  ears  rises  an  echo 
of  the  song:] 

<(  U eternite .  .  .  . 
28 


The  Passion  of  Pere  Hilarion 

C'est  la  mer  allee 
Avec  le  soleil." 

ANAIS 

My  heart  breaks.  The  time  has  come:  I 
must  speak  —  and  you,  Hilarion —  No,  no, 
you  must  stay!  Father  Hilarion,  I  command 
you,  as  my  priest,  as  my  spiritual  director !  I 
must  confess. 

[She  removes  her  veil,  and  in  Hilarion's 
face  a  flush  rises  and  fades  as  he  looks 
again  upon  a  face  of  such  rare,  sur- 
passing beauty  that  even  in  dreams,  be- 
fore he  first  saw  it,  he  had  never  be- 
held one  lovelier,  aught  so  lovely. 
An  acolyte,  with  a  tall  wax  taper,  passing 
by  again,  hears  the  swift  whispering, 
the  low,  ardent  tones  of  a  woman's 
voice:  and,  once  or  twice,  the  deep  mur- 
mur of  Father  Hilarion.] 

ANAIS 

Better  than  the  dream  of  heaven!  He  is 
my  paradise! 

HILARION 

My  daughter,  this  love  is  madness. 

ANAIS 

Then  better  so.  I  am  mad.  Oh,  are  you  a 
man  ?  Do  you  not  understand  ?  I  love  him  — 
I  love  him  —  I  love  him ! 

29 


William  Sharp 

HILARION 

My  daughter,  you  must  tell  me  all.  What 
is  this  secret  thing  that  lies  betwixt  you  and  — 
and  this  man? 

ANAIS 

Hilar  ion ! 

HILARION 

[Troubled.]     Anais,  my  daughter! 

ANAIS 

Hilarion ! 

[Hilarion  half  rises,  then  seats  himself 
again.  His  face  has  grown  paler,  and 
his  hand  trembles.] 

ANAIS 

Oh,  my  God,  how  I  love  him !  What  is  the 
world  to  me?  What  is  this  paradise  you 
dream  of,  this  heaven  you  preach  ?  He  is  my 
heaven,  my  paradise,  my  heart's  delight,  my 
life  itself,  my  very  soul! 

[Anais  bends   forward,  but  hides  her   face 

from    Hilarion,    and    sobs    convulsively. 

The  priest  stares  fixedly  above  her  head 

into    the    gloom    of    the    church   beyond 

the   uncurtained   doorway.] 

HILARION 

[In  a  low  voice.]  Most  Blessed  Virgin- 
Mother,  have  pity! 

[There     is     silence     for     some     moments. 

30 


The  Passion  of  Pere  Hilarion 

Anais  slowly  lifts  her  head  and  looks  at 
the  priest,  who  still  stares  fixedly  into 
the   gloom.] 

ANAIS 

[In  a  faint  whisper.]  Beyond  words!  Be- 
yond thought! 

HILARION 

Mary,  Mother  of  Pity,  hearken ! 

ANAIS 

[Quivering,  as  she  clasps  her  hands  to- 
gether.]  Life  is  a  dream,  and  the  dream  is 
brief.    O  Love,  Love,  Love! 

HILARION 

Mater  Consolatrix,  save,  oh,  save! 

[The  grating,  long  loose,  gives  way,  and 
falls  with  a  clang  upon  the  stone  floor. 
Tremulously  the  priest  lets  his  hand 
fall  upon  the  head  of  Anais.  Suddenly 
she  takes  his  icy  hand  in  hers,  aflame 
as  with  fever.] 

HILARION 

My  daughter,  it  is  a  sin  to  love  so  wildly. 
Only  to  God.  .  .  . 

ANAIS 

[In  a  loud,  mocking  voice.]     Only  to  God! 

HILARION 

Hush,  my  daughter.     I  .  .  . 

ANAIS 

Hilarion ! 

31 


William  Sharp 

HILARION 

[Speaking  low  and  hurriedly.]  My  daugh- 
ter, I  am  a  priest.  Thou  must  speak  to  me  as 
to  thy  spiritual  father.     I  .  .  . 

ANAIS 

Three  years  ago,  Hilarion  .  .  . 

HILARION 

Anais,  Anais! 

[Anais  bows  her  head  over  the  priest's 
hand,  and  her  lips  are  pressed  against  it. 
His  face  is  deathly  pale,  and  on  his  fore- 
head are  drops  of  sweat.  With  a  sud- 
den movement  he  extricates  his  hand 
from  her  grasp.] 

ANAIS 

[Murmuring.]     It  is  killing  me! 

HILARION 

[With  a  great  effort.]  My  daughter,  there 
is  neither  rest,  nor  peace,  nor  beauty,  nor  hap- 
piness, nor  content,  nor  any  weal  whatever  in 
this  world,  save  in  .  .  . 

[Anais  raises  her  head  and  looks  at  him. 
He  speaks  no  further.  There  is  deep 
silence  in  the  church,  save  for  the  shuf- 
fling step  of  an  old  beggar-woman,  who 
slowly  moves  through  the  dusk,  and  at 
last  sinks  wearily  on  her  knees.] 

THE  BEGGAR-WOMAN 

[Repeating  a  prayer  of  the  Church.]     "  For 
32 


The  Passion  of  Pere  Hilarion 

this  is  Thy  Kingdom,  and  we  are  Thy  children, 
O  heavenly  King !  " 

HILARION 

[Mechanically.]     And  we  are  Thy  children ! 

ANAIS 

[With  a  low,  shuddering  voice. ,]  And  this 
is  Thy  Kingdom. 

[Hilarion  rises  suddenly,  as  if  about  to  go.] 

HILARION 

My  daughter,  confess  to  the  Blessed  Mary 
herself.     She  will  give  you  peace. 

ANAIS 

There  is  no  peace  for  me.  I  love  him  with 
all  my  heart  and  all  my  soul  and  all  my  life, 
and  I  know  that  he  loves  me  beyond  all  his 
dreams  of  heaven  and  hell. 

HILARION 

[Hoarsely.]     Who  is  this  man? 

ANAIS 

He  is  a  priest. 

HILARION 

[Murmuring,  half  to  himself.]  "  He  who 
transgresseth  in  this  wise  shall  go  down  into 
the  pit,  and  his  undying  death  shall  be  terror 
beyond  terror,  and  horror  within  horror." 

ANAIS 

And  for  one  kiss  from  his  lips  I  would 
33 


William  Sharp 

barter  this  life ;  for  one  hour  of  love  I  would 
exchange  this  dream  of  a  Paradise  that  shall 
not  be.  He  is  my  day  of  sunshine  and  joy, 
he  is  my  night  of  mystery  and  beatitude. 

HILARION 

[Trembling.]  The  curse  shall  lie  heavy 
upon  him.  .  .  . 

ANAIS 

Oh,  joy  of  life! 

HILARION 

And  upon  you! 

ANAIS 

Oh,  the  glad  sunlight,  the  free  air,  the  sing- 
ing of  birds;  everywhere,  everywhere,  the 
pulse  of  the  world ! 

HILARION 

All  that  live  shall  die. 

ANAIS 

And  the  dead  know  not:  and  if  perchance 
they  dream,  it  is  Life. 

[The   voice  of   the    Beggar-woman   sounds 
hoarsely  in  the  deepening  gloom:] 

"  For  in  this  life  nought  availeth,  and  only 
in  the  grave  —  " 

ANAIS 

[Whispering,  as  she  draws  closer  to  the 
aperture.]  Only  in  the  grave!  —  O  Heart  of 
Love ! 

34 


The  Passion  of  Pere  Hilarion 

HILARION 

[In  a  strained  voice.]     And   this   man  — 
this  priest? 

ANAIS 

Thou  knowest  him. 

HILARION 

Better  for  him  that  he  had  never  been  born. 
Better  — 

ANAIS 

[In    a    low,    thrilling    voice.]     Hilarion! 
Hilarion ! 

[The  priest  trembles  as  though  in  an  ague. 
Anais  again  whispers,  "  Hilarion !  "1 

HILARION 

[Hurriedly.]     My  daughter,  I  must  go.     I 
have  to  officiate. 

ANAIS 

For  the  last  time,  Hilarion. 

HILARION 

Go,  woman !     We  are  in  the  hands  of  God. 
I  — 

ANAIS 

I  die  to-night. 

HILARION 

Anais ! 

ANAIS 

[With  a  passionate  sob.]     My  darling,  my 
darling!     O  Love,  Love,  Love! 

35 


William  Sharp 

[A  bell  clangs  suddenly,  and  a  young  priest 
enters  the  church  from  behind  the  altar, 
bearing  a  light.] 

THE  BEGGAR-WOMAN 

[Mumbling  loudly,  as  she  rises  to  her  feet.] 
u  For  thine  is  the  Kingdom,  the  Power,  and 
the  Glory  —  " 

ANAIS 

[Whispering  eagerly.]     Where?      Where? 

HILARION 

[Slowly,  and  as  if  in  a  dream.]  By  the 
bend  of  the  river  at  Grand-Pre:  where  the 
Calvary  of  the  seven  willows  is :  an  hour  after 
moonrise. 

[Anais  hesitates  a  moment,  then  abruptly 
turns  away  and  leaves  the  church.  Hila- 
rion  passes  into  the  aisle:  walking 
slowly,  with  bent  head,  and  lips  moving 
as  though  in  prayer.  The  young  priest 
comes  toward  him.] 

THE  YOUNG   PRIEST 

Is  it  well  with  thee,  Hilarion,  my  brother? 
Thou  seemest  in  the  shadow  of  trouble. 

HILARION 

[Suddenly  raising  his  head,  and  with  a 
clear,  ringing  voice.]     It  is  well  with  me. 

THE  YOUNG  PRIEST 

And  thou  hast  peace  ? 

36 


The  Passion  of  Pere  Hilarion 

HILARION 

Yea,  at  the  last  I  have  found  peace. 

THE  YOUNG  PRIEST 

May,  too,  the  joy  that  likewise  passeth  un- 
derstanding — 

HILARION 

[Interrupting,  in  a  strange  voice.]  Verily, 
it  also  hath  come  unto  me  at  the  last. 

[He  passes  on,  with  head  erect  and  flashing 
eyes.    The  young  priest  looks  after  him.] 

THE  YOUNG  PRIEST 

He  is  a  dreamer  —  but  a  saint. 

HILARION 

[To  himself  as  he  passes  beyond  the  altar. ,] 
Yea,  the  joy  that  likewise  passeth  under- 
standing. 

[The  choristers  are  practising  their  chant  of 
the  day.] 
Mere  celeste  de  la  Pitiel 
De  toute  Etemite. 

hilarion  (passes  muttering). 
"  Elle  est  retrouvee. 
Quoit    U  etemite  — " 

[The  choristers  singing:] 

On  a  retrouvi 
O  Mere  bien-aimee, 
Ton  doux  conseil  — 
hilarion   (slowly,  as  he  passes  from  sight). 

37 


William  Sharp 

"  C'est  la  mer  allee 
Avec  le  soleil!' 

[Three  hours  later.  The  church  is  closed. 
The  village  is  swathed  in  darkness,  save 
for  a  few  lights  here  and  there.  Across 
the  great  meadow  that  divides  the  vil- 
lage from  the  river  moves  a  tall  figure 
clothed  in  priest's  robes.  The  dew  upon 
the  high  grasses  glistens  with  a  faint 
sheen  where  swept  by  his  skirts.  A  few 
emerald-green  fireflies  wander  hither  and 
thither  through  the  gloom.  A  breath  of 
wind  comes  and  goes,  bearing  with  it 
a  vague  fragrance  of  hay  and  roses 
and  meadow-sweet  Once  the  priest 
stops  and  listens;  but  he  hears  nothing 
save  the  distant  barking  of  a  dog,  and, 
close  by,  the  stealthy  wash  of  flowing 
water.  Beyond  the  marshes  of  Haut-Pre 
the  moon  has  risen.  The  marsh-water 
gleams  like  amber  in  torchlight.  The 
priest  moves  on.  As  he  draws  nearer 
the  river  he  sees,  looming  in  a  confused 
mass  through  the  obscurity,  the  group 
of  seven  willows  in  the  front  of  which 
stands  the  great  Calvary.  A  sudden 
short  essay  of  song  thrills  through  the 
dusk.  Then  the  nightingale  is  still.  As 
the  priest  approaches  the  willows  their 
upper  branches  glow  as  with  dull  gold 
in  the  welling  wave  of  moon-rise.  He 
descries  the  high  ash-gray  mass  of  the 
Calvary  through  their  heavy  boughs, 
and,  beyond,  the  moving  blackness,  shot 

38 


The  Passion  of  Pere  Hilarion 

with  furtive  gleams  and  sudden  spear- 
like shafts  of  pale  light,  of  the  river. 
He  passes  the  willows  and  stops  as  he 
nears  the  Calvary.  He  sees  no  one. 
Slowly  moving  forward,  he  stands  on 
the  bank  of  the  river,  and  looks  upon 
the  dull,  obscure  flow  of  the  water. 
Suddenly  he  turns  and  goes  back  to 
the  Calvary,  Which  he  faces.  A  long, 
wavering  shaft  of  moonlight  illumes  the 
woe-wrought  face  of  the  carven  Christ. 
The  priest  stands  with  crossed  arms, 
staring  fixedly  at  the  moonlit  features  of 
the  God.  The  green  fireflies  wander  fit- 
fully betwixt  him  and  the  image:  he 
sees  them  not.  The  nightingale  gives 
three  thrilling  cries,  passionate  vibra- 
tions of  forlornest  music:  he  hears  them 
not. 
Through  the  tall  dew-drenched  grasses  be- 
yond there  is  a  soft  susurrus.  The 
priest's  ears  are  charmed,  for  still,  with 
crossed  arms,  he  stands  staring  fixedly 
at  the  tortured  face  of  the  dead  God. 
Suddenly  he  starts,  as,  from  beyond  the 
mass  of  the  Calvary,  a  fantastic  shadow 
moves  toward  him.  He  steps  aside,  and 
through  the  thin,  moon-illumined  mist 
behind  he  sees  Anais  approach,  the  moon- 
shine turning  her  hair  to  pale  bronze 
and  making  her  face  as  one  of  the  water- 
lilies  in  the  river.] 
ANAIS 

[Eagerly   advancing.]     Hilarion! 
39 


William  Sharp 

HILARION 

I  am  here. 

ANAIS 

[  With  fierce  fervor.]  Let  the  priest  die ! 
It  is  you  —  it  is  you,  Hilarion  —  whom  I  meet 
here.     At  last !     At  last ! 

[Hilarion  is  silent;  and  neither  advances  nor 
makes  any  gesture.  Ana'is  hesitates,  then 
comes  close  up  to  him  and  looks  into  his 
eyes.] 

ANAIS 
Hilarion,  is  it  life  or  death? 

[Abruptly  the  nightingale  sends  a  low  cres- 
cendo note  throbbing  through  the  moon- 
light.] 

HILARION 

[  Whispering  and  slowly.]  Life  —  or  — 
death. 

[With  rapture  swells  the  song  of  the  nightin- 
gale, intoxicated  with  a  mad  ecstasy.] 

ANAIS 

[In  a  low  voice.]  Ah,  Hilarion,  have  you 
forgotten  ? 

[Suddenly,  with  rapid  diminutions,  the  night- 
ingale's song  sinks  to  a  thin,  aerial  music : 
abruptly  wells  forth  again :  and  then,  in 
a  moment,  ceases  absolutely.  There  is  a 
faint  beat  of  wings,  a  rustle,  and  then 
the  bird  swoops  in  slanting  flight  from 
the  mid-foliage,  circles   twice   round  the 

40 


The  Passion  of  Pere  Hilarion 

willow,  and  swiftly,  as  though  an  ar- 
row, flies  through  the  dusk  across  the 
river.  Hilarion  starts  as  though  awak- 
ened from  a  trance.] 

HILARION 
[Wildly.]     Anais! 

ANAIS 

Hilarion!     O  my  darling,  my  darling! 

[She  springs  to  his  open  arms,  and,  as  he 
bends  over  her,  kissing  her  passionately, 
she  sees  by  the  moongleam  reflected  from 
the  Calvary  how  deathly  white  he  is.] 

HILARION 

[With  a  hoarse  sob.  Heart  of  my  heart 
—  soul  of  my  soul  —  my  life  —  my  joy  —  my 
heaven  —  my  hell !    Anais !  —  Anais ! 

ANAIS 

.  [Extricating  herself  from  his  savage  grasp.] 
Is  it  life  or  —  death  —  Hilarion? 

HILARION 

They  are  the  same :  it  matters  not. 

ANAIS 

The  nightingale  has  gone  to  his  mate  — 
yonder ! 

HILARION 

Dear,  if  only  — 

Anais 
In  the  cottage,  on  the  other  side  of  the  river 

41 


William  Sharp 

—  Hilarion,  there  is  no  one  there:  it  waits 
my  brother  Raoul's  return:  his  clothes  would 
fit  you  —  he  will  not  need  them  for  months 
yet  —  he  is  still  under  arms.  If  they  find 
your  priest's  robes  in  the  river,  they  will 
know  — 

HILARION 

Sst!    What  it  that? 

ANAIS 

It  is  the  night-wind  coming  over  the  hay- 
fields  from  afar. 

HILARION 

Did  no  one  speak? 

ANAIS 

There  is  no  one  to  speak.    We  are  alone. 
None  sees  us  but  God. 

HILARION 

[With  a  swift  shudder.]     No  one  sees  us 
but  God. 

ANAIS 

And  He  —  He  is  so  far  away.     He  speaks 
not  —  He  breathes  not  —  He  must  be  dead. 

HILARION 

[Wearily.]     He  speaks  not  —  He  breathes 
not  —  He  must  be  dead. 

ANAIS 

Is  it  not  so?    For  — 
42 


The  Passion  of  Pere  Hilarion 

HILARION 

It  is  even  so. 

ANAIS 

And,  dear,  you  have  dreamed  a  long,  bitter 
dream. 

HILARION 

Ay,  a  long  dream. 

ANAIS 

And  the  dawn  is  at  hand.    At  last,  at  last! 
Oh,  Hilarion! 

HILARION 

Thou  sayest  it. 

ANAIS 

[Suddenly  sinking  to  her  knees,  sobbingly.] 
My  darling,  forgive  me !    Hilarion,  kill  me ! 

HILARION 

Sst!    What  is  that? 

ANAIS 

It    is    the    night-wind    creeping   over   the 
marshes  of  Haut-Pre. 

HILARION 

[Suddenly.]     Life!    Life!  beautiful  Life! 
Anais,  let  us  go. 

[He  clasps  her  left  hand  in  his  right,  and 
both  walk  to  the  river's  bank.] 

HILARION 

Can  we  reach  the  other  side  in  this  high 
flood? 

43 


William  Sharp 

ANAIS 

Yes,  by  swimming.  Hark !  there  is  no  time 
to  lose.  I  hear,  across  the  marshes,  the  bells 
of  Urle.     The  floods  are  rising. 

[Hilarion  slowly  discards  his  priest's  robes, 
and  then,  as  by  an  afterthought,  strips 
himself  also  of  his  penitent's  garment  and 
stands  forth  naked  in  the  moonlight.  He 
looks  broodingly  into  the  dark  flood  of 
water  moving  stealthily  past.  Anais 
rapidly  throws  off  her  clothes.  He  turns 
just  as  she  stands  forth  in  all  her  naked 
beauty,  like  a  vision  of  embodied  moon- 
light] 

HILARION 

Anais ! 

ANAIS 

Because  I  too  am  drowned. 

[Hilaron  hesitates  a  moment,  then  steps  to 
her,  takes  her  in  his  arms,  kisses  her 
wildly  again  and  again.  Then  saying 
simply,  Come,  he  clasps  her  hand  and 
they  both  enter  the  water.  When  Anais 
is  breast-high  they  stop.  Hilarion  stoops 
and  kisses  her  long  upon  the  lips.] 
HILARION 

If  there  be  no  morrow  — 

ANAIS 

Dear,  with  you  I  fear  neither  life  nor  death. 
Neither  death  nor  life. 

[They  enter  the  black  shadow  of  midstream, 
and  silently  swim  side  by  side,  till  at  last 

44 


The  Passion  of  Pere  Hilarion 

they  gain  the  opposite  bank.  There,  hand 
in  hand,  they  stand  a  brief  while,  breath- 
ing heavily,  and  looking  back  upon  the 
boundary  they  have  crossed  forever.  As 
the  moonshine  slowly  waves  northward, 
Anais,  turning,  descries  the  vague  outline 
of  her  brother's  unoccupied  cottage. 
Stealthily  she  withdraws  her  hand  from 
Hilarion's  clasp  and  noiselessly  slips 
from  his  side,  through  the  deep  shadows, 
toward  the  cottage.  He  stands  alone, 
white  in  the  moonlight,  passive  as  a 
statue.  Suddenly  he  gives  a  hoarse  cry, 
leaps  down  the  bank  and  into  the  water 
again.  With  swift,  fierce  strokes  he 
swims  rapidly  across  the  river,  bearing 
hard  against  the  current,  but  swerving 
neither  to  right  nor  to  left.  As  he  nears 
the  opposite  bank  he  staggers,  clutching 
the  reeds:  then,  stooping,  half-climbs, 
half-leaps  up  the  bank,  and,  having 
gained  it,  walks  swiftly  toward  the  Cal- 
vary. The  moonlight  is  now  all  about  it, 
except  at  the  head  of  the  crucified  God, 
which  is  in  deep  shadow.  Hilarion  the 
priest  stands  in  front  of  the  Calvary,  star- 
ing fixedly  upward.  Slowly  he  advances, 
and  stands  on  the  highest  of  the  three 
low  steps  of  the  pedestal  of  the  cross, 
and,  straining  every  muscle,  scrutinizes 
the  carven  face  of  agony.] 
HILARION 
[In  a  hoarse  whisper.']  Behold,  the  God  is 
verily  dead. 

45 


William  Sharp 

[Nothing  stirs  in  the  silence,  in  the  moon- 
light, in  the  darkness.] 

HILARION 

Wilt  Thou  save,  even  now,  O  my  Lord? 
[Nothing  stirs  in  the  silence  of  the  moon- 
light, of  the  darkness.] 

HILARION 
[In   a   loud,   vibrant   voice.]     Wilt    Thou 
save  Thyself,  Thou   Lord   without  lordship, 
Thou  fallen  God ! 

[In  the  darkness,  in  the  moonlight,  nothing 
stirs.] 

HILARION 

[Furiously.]     Ah,  Thou  dead  God! 

[Hilarion  the  priest  leaps  forward,  and,  with 
wild  gestures  and  savage  violence,  tears 
the  crucified  figure  from  the  cross  and 
hurls  it  to  the  ground.  Then,  in  panting 
silence,  he  sways  to  and  fro  with  his  arms 
claspt  round  the  cross,  which  at  last 
yields,  breaks,  and  falls  to  the  ground. 
He  seizes  it  and  drags  it  to  the  bank 
and  thrusts  it  into  the  river,  silently 
watching  it  sink  half  way  in  the  ooze 
of  the  reeds.  Then  returning,  with  a 
low,  triumphing  cry,  he  grasps  the 
carven  figure,  and,  having  reached  the 
bank  again,  lifts  the  image  above  his 
head,  poises  it  a  moment,  while  the  moon- 
shine clothes  him  as  with  a  garment,  and 
then,  with  desperate  fury,  hurls  it  with 
a  great  effort  far  amid-stream. 

46 


The  Passion  of  Pere  Hilarion 

[The  moonlight  lies  like  a  white  transparent 
cloud  along  the  bank,  and  along  the 
nearer  half  of  the  flood:  on  the  further 
side  the  darkness  is  now  profound,  and 
the  river  seems  narrowed  to  a  stream. 
Far  off,  in  the  marshes,  the  frogs  croak: 
the  crickets  in  the  distant  meadows 
shrill  incessantly,  over  the  pastures  a  fern- 
owl hawks  with  a  strange  choking  cry. 
Otherwise,  silence,  and  utter  peace.  The 
man  draws  himself  up  to  his  full  height, 
turns  toward  the  unseen  village  beyond 
the  great  meadow,  silver-white  with 
moonshine  and  dew,  and  raises  his  right 
arm  menacingly.  But  he  lets  it  drop, 
speaking  no  word.  Then,  turning  again, 
he  moves  slowly  toward  and  into  the 
river.  The  moonlight  turns  the  white 
skin  of  his  shoulder  into  amber,  as  he 
swims  across  the  flood.  Then  he  passes 
into  the  darkness.  In  profound  dark- 
ness he  swims  toward  the  shore:  in  pro- 
found darkness  he  scales  the  opposite 
bank:  through  the  profound  darkness  be- 
yond, his  voice,  hoarse,  yet  vibrant  and 
echoing,  calls  with  mad  joy:] 

Ana'is !    Anais ! 


47 


Enter  with  me  into  the  dark  zone  of  the 
human  soul. 
Emilia  Pardo  Bazan. 


The  Birth  of  a  Soul 


THE  BIRTH  OF  A  SOUL 

[A  bedroom,  austerely  furnished,  in  an  old 
city  of  Flanders.  To  the  left,  a  rt  Span- 
ish throne,"  as  such  beds  are  called  — 
heavy  with  sombre  woodwork  and  huge 
all-length  canopy;  with  tall,  dark,  thick 
curtains  at  the  top  and  at  the  bottom; 
and  approached  by  three  low  wooden 
steps  belonging  to  and  running  the  whole 
length  of  the  bed.  In  the  bed  a  woman, 
about  to  give  birth  to  a  child.  Kneeling 
at  a  chair  betwixt  the  head  of  the  bed 
and  the  bare  table  with  dull  green  cloth, 
on  which  is  a  low-shaded  reading  lamp, 
is  a  man,  the  father  of  the  unborn  child. 
To  his  left,  a  Sister  of  Mercy,  also  kneel- 
ing, but  at  the  lowest  of  the  three  steps 
of  the  bed.  To  his  right,  kneeling  at  a 
chair  near  the  table,  a  priest.  The  door 
of  the  room,  to  the  right  behind  the  bed, 
conspicuous  by  its  black-oak  panelling. 
At  the  opposite  side  of  the  room  from 
the  bed:  to  the  right,  a  tall,  fantastically 
carved  black-oak  clock,  with  clay-white 
face,  with  hands  broken  and  dangling 
this  way  and  that:  beyond  it,  to  the  left, 
in  a  deep-set  recess,  an  old  Flemish 
window.] 

THE  PRIEST 

[Kneeling  at  a  chair,  praying  aloud.]     O 
5i 


William  Sharp 

God,  may  the  child  that  cometh  unto  us  from 
Thee  be  blessed  by  Thee  to  purity  and 
strength.  May  he  come  as  a  scourge  to  the 
wrong-doer,  as  a  message  of  peace  to  the 
righteous. 

THE  MAN 

[Kneeling  at  a  chair  near  the  head  of  the 
bed,  praying  silently.]  O  God,  may  the  child 
that  is  to  be  born  to  us  not  be  a  man-child. 
Already,  already,  O  God,  the  curse  that  is 
within  me  has  descended  into  the  third  gen- 
eration. 

THE   PRIEST 

[Praying  aloud.]  And  if  the  child  be  a 
woman-child,  O  Lord,  may  she  be  a  lamp  of 
light  in  dark  places,  a  godly  presence  among 
the  evil. 

THE   WOMAN 

[Praying  in  the  silence.]  O  God,  may  the 
child  that  is  within  me  not  be  a  woman-child, 
so  that  she  may  never  know  the  bitterness  of 
shame  and  all  the  heritage  of  woman's  woe. 

ANOTHER 

[Unseen  and  unheard:  in  the  deep  shadow 
at  the  end  of  the  bed.]  Thou  living  thing 
within  the  womb,  when  thou  art  born  I  shall 
dwell  within  thee  as  thy  soul.  And  the  sin  of 
the  woman,  the  which  I  am,  shall  lie  like  a 
canker-worm  within  thy  heart :  and  the  evil  of 

52 


The  Birth  of  a  Soul 

the  man,  the  which  I  am,  shall  eat  into  thy  in- 
most being.  And  thou  shalt  grow  in  corrup- 
tion.    And  thy  end  shall  be  nothingness. 

THE  PRIEST 

[Aloud.']  Have  mercy,  O  God,  upon  this 
immortal  soul! 

THE  OTHER 

[In  the  shadow.]  For  in  the  shadow  of 
hell  wast  thou  conceived,  and  out  of  the  hor- 
ror of  the  grave  I  come. 

THE  SISTER  OF   MERCY 

[Aloud,  kneeling  betwixt  the  table  and  the 
bed.]  Amen!  Hear,  O  Blessed  Mary;  hear, 
oh,  hear! 

THE  MAN 

Have  pity  upon  us ! 

THE   MOTHER 

O  Christ,  son  of  Mary,  save  me ! 

THE   PRIEST 

[Aloud.]     For  it  is  Thine! 

THE  SISTER  OF   MERCY 

Thine! 

THE  OTHER 

[In  the  shadow.]     Mine ! 

[Silence  for  some  minutes.  The  clock  ticks 
loudly.  A  sound  as  of  an  opening  and 
closing  door  somewhere.  The  Priest 
looks  up  for  a  moment,  thinking  he  heard 

53 


William  Sharp 

someone  rise  from  the  deep-set  window- 
seat  at  the  far  end  of  the  chamber  and 
come  slowly  across  the  room.  But  he 
sees  no  one.  He  bends  his  head  again, 
and  prays  inaudibly.] 

THE  MAN 

[With  his  face  buried  in  his  hands.]     If  it 
be  possible,  let  this  thing  — 

[Stops,  as  there  comes  from  the  bed  a 
sound  of  low,  shaken  sobs.] 

THE  WOMAN 

[Below  her  breath.]  .  .  .  Even  so,  Virgin 
Mother,  Most  Pure ! 

THE   OTHER 

[In  the  shadow.]     Yea,  so. 

[Again  a  prolonged  silence.  All  wait,  know- 
ing the  woman's  agony  is  at  hand.  The 
right  hand  of  the  father  shakes  as  though 
he  were  in  an  ague.  The  sweat  on  his 
forehead  moves  slowly  down  his  face  in 
large,  heavy  drops.] 

THE   MAN 

[Suddenly.]     Who  knocks? 

THE   PRIEST 

No  one  knocked. 

THE   WOMAN 

[In  a  high,  faint,  perishing  voice.]     Who 
knocks  ? 

[The  Sister  of  Mercy  rises  and  goes  to  the 

54 


The  Birth  of  a  Soul 

door.    Opens    and    closes    it,    saying   as 
she  returns  to  her  post:] 

THE  SISTER  OF   MERCY 

There  is  no  one  there. 


? 


THE  WOMAN 

[Shrilly.]     Who  came  in  just  now 

THE  SISTER  OF   MERCY 

No  one.    It  is  I. 

THE  WOMAN 

[In  a  low  sighing  tone.]     It  is  the  end. 

THE  OTHER 

[In  the  shadow.]     It  is  the  beginning  of 
the  end. 

[A  prolonged  silence,  save  for  the  endless 
moaning  and  occasional  convulsive  cries 
of  the  woman.  At  last  the  Priest  rises, 
and  sits  by  the  table.  He  pulls  the 
shaded  lamp  towards  him,  and  begins  to 
read  from  a  book:] 
THE   PRIEST 

Unto  us  a  child  is  born  — 

[The  woman  sits  up  convulsively  in  bed, 
with  her  face  turned  almost  round  upon 
her  right  shoulder,  her  eyes  staring  in 
horror.] 

THE  WOMAN 

Who  touched  me  ? 

THE  SISTER  OF   MERCY 

[Rising.]     Hush ! 

55 


William  Sharp 

[She  comes  over  to  the  bed,  gently  per- 
suades the  woman  to  lie  back,  and  then 
kneels  beside  the  bed.] 

THE  SISTER  OF   MERCY 

There  is  no  one  here  but  those  who  love 
you.  There  is  no  one  here  but  those  whom 
you  see. 

THE  OTHER 

[In  the  shadow.]     And  I ! 

[In  the  heavy  curtains  behind  the  bed  a 
current  of  air  seems  to  move  for  a  mo- 
ment.] 

THE   WOMAN 

[White  with  fear,  whispering.]  Who  sighed 
behind  me? 

THE  SISTER  OF   MERCY 

There  is  no  one  here  but  those  who  love 
you.  There  is  no  one  here  but  those  whom 
you  see. 

[Again  silence,  butt  for  the  monotonous 
moaning  of  the  woman.  The  clock 
strikes  the  quarter.  The  man  rises, 
goes  to  the  window,  stares  forth  steadily, 
then  returns.] 

THE  MAN 
There  is  no  one  there. 

[The  woman's  limbs  move  slowly  beneath 
the  coverlet.  Her  breathing  is  high  and 
quick,   though   ever    and   again   it   stops 

56 


The  Birth  of  a  Soul 

abruptly.    Her    hands   wander    restlessly 
to  and  fro,  ceaslessly  plucking  at  noth- 
ing.] 
THE  SISTER  OF  MERCY    (iff  a  low  VOlce). 

Ave  Maria! 

[The  woman's  hands  never  cease  their 
pluck,  pluck,  plucking  at  nothing.] 

THE  PRIEST 

[Muttering  to  himself, .]     It  will  soon  be 
over. 

THE  OTHER 

[In  the  shadow.']     It  has  begun. 

[The  man  rises,  goes  to  the  window,  stares 
forth   steadily,  then   returns.] 

THE  MAN 

There  is  no  one  there. 

[The  woman's  hands  cease  their  wandering 
sidelong  pluck,  pluck,  pluck.  She  raises 
both  hands  slowly,  rigid,  emaciated. 
When  they  are  above  her  head  they 
suddenly  fall.  The  right  strikes  the 
wooden  edge  of  the  bed,  and  hangs  stiffly 
by  its  side.  The  Sister  of  Mercy  re- 
places it,  the  woman  watching  her 
fixedly.] 

THE  PRIEST 

[Starting  up  suddenly,  and  trembling.']    My 
brethren,  if  so  be  — 

THE    MAN 

[Pointing.]     What  —  who  —  is  that? 
57 


William  Sharp 

THE   PRIEST 

My  son,  there  is  nought  there? 

THE   MAN 

Who  stirred  in  the  deep  shadow  at  the  end 
of  the  bed? 

THE  SISTER  OF   MERCY 

Hush !  for  the  love  of  God !    The  woman  is 
in  labour. 

[There  is  a  sound  as  of  some  one  drowning 
in  a  morass:  a  horrible  struggling  and 
choking.] 

THE  PRIEST 

[Holding  up   a  small   crucifix.]     O   God, 
have  pity  upon  us ! 

THE   SISTER   OF    MERCY 

O  Christ,  have  pity  upon  us! 

THE   MAN 

[Peering  into  the  shadowy  gloom  at  the  end 
of  the  bed.]     O  Thou,  have  pity  upon  us ! 

THE   PRIEST 

[Chanting.]     O  Death,  where  is  thy  sting! 

THE  OTHER 

[In  the  shadow.]     In  thy  birth,  O  Life ! 

THE   PRIEST 

[Chanting.]     O  Grave,   where  is  thy  vic- 
tory! 

58 


The  Birth  of  a  Soul 

THE   OTHER 

[In  the  shadow.]     I  am  come. 

[There  is  a  sudden  cessation  of  sound. 
The  Sister  of  Mercy  lifts  something 
from  the  bed.  There  is  a  low,  thin  wail. 
The  man  does  not  see,  and  does  not  seem 
to  hear.  He  kneels  at  his  chair,  but  his 
head  is  turned  away,  and  he  stares 
fixedly  toward  the  window.] 

THE  SISTER  OF   MERCY 

She  is  dead. 

THE   PRIEST 

O  God,  receive  her  soul!  O  Christ,  have 
pity  upon  her !  O  most  Holy  Mother  of  God, 
have  mercy  upon  her ! 

THE  OTHER 

[In  the  shadow.  ]  Woman,  abide  yet  a  lit- 
tle.   Give  me  thy  life. 

THE  SISTER  OF   MERCY 

The  child  liveth.     It  is  a  man-child. 

THE   PRIEST 

[Touching  the  man.~\     It  is  a  man-child. 

THE   MAN 

[Still  staring  fixedly  at  the  window,  re- 
peats, in  a  slow,  dull  voice.]  It  is  a  man- 
child. 

[The  man  slowly  rises,  turns,  and  walks  to 
the  bedside.  He  stares  upon  the  dead 
face.] 

59 


William  Sharp 

THE   PRIEST 

[Ending  rapidly.]     As  it  was  in  the  begin- 
ning— 

THE  SISTER  OF   MERCY 

Is  now  — 

A  VOICE 

[Near  the  window.]     And  ever  shall  be. 

THE   PRIEST 

[Trembling.']     Who  spoke? 

THE  SISTER   OF   MERCY 

No  one. 

[The  Priest  falls  on  his  knees  and,  cover- 
ing his  eyes,  prays  fervently.  The  man 
lifts  the  child  from  the  Sister's  arms. 
Its  eyes  open  upon  him.  As  he  looks 
at  it  his  face  grows  ashy  pale.  His 
whole  body  trembles.  His  eyes  seem  as 
though  they  would  strain  from  their 
sockets.] 

THE  PRIEST 

[Rising,  and  in  a  loud,   clear  voice.]     O 
Death,  where  is  thy  sting ! 

[The  man  looks  at  what  was  the  woman.] 

THE   PRIEST 

O  Grave,  where  is  thy  victory! 

THE   MAN 

[Looking  on  the  face  of  the  child,  who  is 
fixedly  staring  beyond  him.]     Here. 

60 


A  Northern  Night 


That  dark  hour,  obscurely  minatory,  in  the 
tide  of  two  lives  .  .  .  when,  unforeseen  and 
unrecognized,  Love  and  Death  come  in  at  the 
Hood  together. 

SlWAARMILL. 


A  NORTHERN  NIGHT 

[An  hour  after  midnight.  A  desolate  dis- 
trict of  Northern  Scotland,  hemmed  in 
by  mountains  and  innumerable  lochs  and 
tarns  and  deep,  narrow  streams.  In  the 
remotest  part  of  it,  miles  from  the  near- 
est hunt,  a  semi-ruinous  "keep,"  Iorsa 
Tower,  at  the  extreme  north  end  of  Loch 
Malon.  It  is  dead  of  winter.  For  weeks 
the  land  has  been  ice-bound.  The  deer 
and  the  hill-sheep  are  starving;  only  the 
corbies  and  eagles  gorge  their  full.  Iorsa 
Keep  stands  out  black  against  the  snow- 
covered  wilderness.  A  dull,  red  light, 
high  up,  like  a  staring  eye,  gleams  under  a 
projecting  ledge.  There  is  no  sound  but 
the  occasional  crack  of  the  bitter  frost, 
and,  at  intervals,  the  wind  pressing  in 
the  frozen  surface  of  the  snow  depths. 
In  the  one  habitable  room  sit  two  figures, 
before  a  rude  fire  of  pine-logs.  Most  of 
the  room  is  in  deep  shadow.  The  flick- 
ering flame-light  discloses  a  small,  deep- 
set  window  to  the  left.  Between  it  and 
the  hearth-place,  and  close  to  the  wall, 
a  bed,  startlingly  white  in  the  midst 
of  the  gloom.  Over  it,  on  the  wall,  the 
flying  lights  flash  momently  on  old  dis- 
used weapons. 

In  all  the  wild  lands  around  there  is  not  a 

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William  Sharp 

living  soul  except  the  twain  who  sit  be- 
fore the  fire.] 

MALCOLM 

The  black  frost  is  about  to  break:  I  hear 
the  wind  ruffling  the  snow. 

HELDA 

Is  it  the  snow  ? 

MALCOLM 

Go  to  the  window  and  look  out.  You  will 
see  the  thin,  frozen  snow  beginning  to  fly 
along  the  loch  like  spray.     The  wind  rises. 

HELDA 

No ;  I  am  afraid. 

MALCOLM 

[Rising.']  Then  I  will  go.  .  .  .  See,  the 
window  is  open,  and  you  can  now  hear  the 
wind. 

HELDA 

Oh,  how  cold  it  is. 

MALCOLM 

The  wind  is  blowing  from  behind:  it  did 
not  come  in  at  the  window. 

HELDA 

Yes,  yes,  it  did:  and  .  .  . 

MALCOLM 

[Returning  to  Helda's  side.]  Is  not  the  fire 
comforting?  The  logs  are  red-hot,  sparkling 
and  sputtering. 

64 


A  Northern  Night 

[Helda,   slightly  shivering,  glances   at  him, 
and  then  draws  nearer  to  the  fire.] 

MALCOLM 
Are  you  not  glad  we  are  no  longer  on  the 
ice? 

HELDA 

Yes:  oh,  yes,  yes. 

MALCOLM 

And  that  we  are  here  at  last,  we  two !    Oh, 
Helda! 

HELDA 

Yes,  I  am  glad  that  we  are  no  longer  upon 
the  ice. 

MALCOLM 

Why  do  you  repeat  yourself,  Helda? 

[Helda,    in    silence,    looks    straight    before 
her  into  the  fire.] 

MALCOLM 

Why  are  you  glad? 

HELDA 

Because  I  feared  that  we  were  followed. 

MALCOLM 

Who  would  have  followed  us?    Who  could 
have  followed  us? 

[Helda  stares  fixedly,  and  in  silence,  at  the 
glowing  embers.] 

MALCOLM 

No  one  followed  us. 
65 


William  Sharp 

HELDA 

Thrice,  when  I  looked  behind  my  shoulder, 
I  saw  a  shadow  flying  along  the  ice. 

MALCOLM 

The  half -moon  was  as  ruddy  as  a  torch- 
flame.  We  should  have  seen  any  one  who 
followed  us.  And  when  we  reached  the 
frozen  loch  we  could  see  all  around. 

HELDA 

It  was  there  I  saw  the  flying  shadow 

MALCOLM 

I  heard  no  one.     I  heard  nothing. 

HELDA 

Nor  I,  except  the  hiss  of  the  wind  blowing 
the  ice-spray  over  the  loch. 

MALCOLM 

There  was  no  wind. 

HELDA 

The  ice-spray  flew  before  the  blast.  I  saw 
a  little  cloud  of  it  behind. 

MALCOLM 

There  was  no  wind.  And  now,  I  have  told 
you,  the  wind  is  from  behind  the  house. 

HELDA 

Then  it  blew  toward  the  house. 

MALCOLM 

Well,  it  does  not  matter.  "  The  wind  com- 
eth  and  goeth." 

66 


A  Northern  Night 

HELDA 

[Slowly,  and  as  to  herself.]  It  cometh  — 
and  goeth. 

MALCOLM 

I  wonder  what  they  are  doing  at  the  cas- 
tle. The  dancers  will  have  gone  now.  Per- 
haps they  will  be  putting  out  the  lights. 

HELDA 

If  we  have  been  missed  ? 

MALCOLM 

No  one  will  miss  us.  But,  if  so,  what  then  ? 
My  father  knows  that  those  of  us  for  whom 
there  is  not  room  in  the  castle  will  sleep  for 
the  night  in  some  of  the  farm-houses  near. 
As  for  you,  if  you  are  missed  they  will  think 
you  have  skated  back  to  Castle  Urquhar.  No 
one  can  know.  We  are  as  safe  here,  my 
beautiful  Helda,  as  though  we  were  in  the 
grave. 

HELDA 

Hush !    Do  not  say  such  things. 

MALCOLM 

Darling,  we  are  safe  here.  We  are  miles 
from  the  nearest  hut  even.  No  one  ever 
comes  here. 

HELDA 

Malcolm,  I  wish  —  I  wish  — 

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William  Sharp 

MALCOLM 

What  is  it,  Helda?    Speak. 

HELDA 

I  wish  we  had  not  done  this  thing.     He  — 

MALCOLM 

Who? 

HELDA 

You  know  whom  I  mean :  Archibald  Graeme. 

MALCOLM 

Never  mind  that  old  man.  You  will  have 
more  than  enough  of  him  soon.  Is  it  still 
fixed  that  the  marriage  is  to  take  place  ten 
days  hence? 

HELDA 

He  is  a  good  man.  He  has  saved  my 
father  from  ruin. 

MALCOLM 

Will  he  take  you  away?  Will  he  take  you 
to  the  South-country? 

HELDA 

And  he  loved  my  mother.  He  loves  me 
because  he  loved  her. 

MALCOLM 

He  is  soon  to  be  so  passing  rich,  Helda. 
I  am  to  starve,  to  famish  for  you,  Helda. 

HELDA 

Dear,  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart  and 
with   all   my    soul.    You   know   it.    I   have 

68 


A  Northern  Night 

given  you  my  secret  joy,  my  true  life,  my 
whole  love,  myself. 

MALCOLM 

Love  like  ours  would  redeem  .  .  . 

HELDA 

Hark! 

MALCOLM 

It  is  the  wind. 

HELDA 

It  blows  again  across  the  loch,  against  the 
window. 

MALCOLM 

No,  dear  Helda,  it  is  but  an  eddy.  The 
wind  rises  more  and  more,  but  from  the 
north. 

HELDA 

[Whispering.]  Some  white  snow  was 
blown  up  against  the  window! 

MALCOLM 

Dearest,  you  are  imagining.  No  snow  can 
blow  against  this  window  with  the  wind  as  it 
is,  for  the  gable  shuts  us  off. 

HELDA 

[Trembling,  and  with  hands  claspt.]  I 
saw  a  round  drift  of  something  pale  as  snow 
pressed  against  the  window. 

MALCOLM 

I  will  convince  you. 

69 


William  Sharp 

[Rises,  and  opens  the  window.  There  is  no 
snow  on  the  sill.  The  wind  strikes  the 
Keep  behind  with  a  dull  boom,  and 
rushes  overhead  with  an  incessant 
screaming  sound.  But  in  front  all  is  as 
quiet  as  though  it  were  a  windless  night.] 

MALCOLM 

See,  dear,  there  is  no  snow:  and  hark!  the 
wind  blows  steadily  southward. 

[Closes  the  window,  and  returns  to  Helda's 
side.] 

HELDA 

Malcolm,  you  will  not  be  angry  with  me  — 
if  I  — if  I  .  .  . 

MALCOLM 

What? 

HELDA 

If  I  pray.  I  have  not  prayed  for  a  long 
time  from  my  heart.  To-night  I  fear  the 
darkness  without  a  prayer.  I  will  say  no 
words,  but  I  must  pray. 

MALCOLM 

Pray  if  you  will,  Helda. 

HELDA 

Yes,  ...  yes;  ...  I  must  pray! 

MALCOLM 

Dear,  as  you  will.  You  would  be  alone? 
.  .  .  See:  I  shall  be  in  the  corridor  outside. 
Call  me  when  you  wish  me  to  return.     But 

7o 


A  Northern  Night 

have  mercy  on  me,  sweetheart!  Remember 
that  there  is  no  fire  out  there,  and  that  the  air 
is  chill  along  those  stone  flags. 

[Rises     and     leaves     the     room.    He    has 

scarcely  closed  the  door  ere  Helda  cries 

loudly:] 

HELDA 

Malcolm!  Malcolm!  Come  at  once!  Mal- 
colm! 

MALCOLM 

[Abruptly  re-entering.]  What  is  it?  .  .  . 
what  is  it,  Helda?  Has  anything  frightened 
you? 

HELDA 

Yes,  the  whiteness  at  the  window:  the 
snow  at  the  window! 

MALCOLM 

Oh,  Helda,  Helda,  there  is  no  snow  at  the 
window. 

HELDA 

Malcolm,  are  there  any  birds  that  fly  by 
night  ? 

MALCOLM 

The  owls  fly  by  night,  but  not  at  dead  of 
winter. 

HELDA 

No  bats,  no  moths? 

MALCOLM 

No. 


.V 


William  Sharp 

HELDA 

When  I  looked  out  at  the  window  when 
we  came  in  here  I  saw  that  there  were  no 
trees  near,  and  that  no  ivy  grows  up  this  side 
of  Iorsa. 

MALCOLM 

There  is  none. 

HELDA 

[In  a  low,  strained  voice.]  Malcolm,  it 
was  as  though  there  were  birds  tapping  at 
the  window. 

V*  .  MALCOLM 

You  are  nervous,  darling.  Come,  let  us 
forget  the  dark  night,  and  the  wind,  and  the 
bitter  cold.  We  are  here,  and  the  world  is 
ours  to-night. 

HELDA 

Hush!    There  it  is  again! 

MALCOLM 

That  sound  is  in  the  room. 

HELDA 

Malcolm !    Malcolm ! 

MALCOLM 

My  foolish  Helda,  how  easy  it  would  be 
to  frighten  you.  It  is  only  a  little  insect  in 
the  wall. 

HELDA 

The  death-watch? 

72 


A  Northern  Night 

MALCOLM 

Yes,  the  death-watch. 

HELDA 

[Shuddering.]  It  is  a  horrible  name. 
Sst!    How  the  wind  wails. 

MALCOLM 

I  hope  .  .  . 

HELDA 

What? 

MALCOLM 

I  hope  it  does  not  bring  too  much  snow. 

HELDA 

Why? 

MALCOLM 

We  are  a  long  way  from  home,  Helda. 

HELDA 

Do  you  fear  that  we  cannot  get  back  if  the 
snow  fall  heavily? 

MALCOLM 

If  it  drifts  we  cannot  skate.  But  there  is 
no  snow  yet.  There  will  be  none  before 
morning. 

HELDA 

Darling,  I  have  lost  all  fear.  I  am  with 
you.  That  is  enough.  If  it  were  not  for 
my  father's  sake,  I  wish  we  could  die  to- 
night ! 

73 


( 


William  Sharp 

MALCOLM 

My  beautiful  Helda,  my  darling,  my  heart's 
delight ! 

[They  stand  awhile  together  by  the  fire,  she 
leaning  against  him',  and  his  left  arm 
round  her.  A  log  falls  in.  Another 
gives  way  with  a  crash.  There  is  only 
a  red  gulf  of  pulsating  glow,  with  over 
the  last  charred  log  pale  blue  frost- 
flames  flickering  fantastically.  Suddenly 
they  turn,  and  look  into  each  other's 
eyes.  Malcolm's  shine  strangely  in  the 
half-light,  and  his  face  has  grown  pale. 
A  tremulous  flush  wavers  upon  Helda's 
face.  His  breathing  comes  quick  and 
hard.  She  gives  a  low,  scarce-heard 
sob.] 

MALCOLM 

My  darling! 

HELDA 

Oh,  Malcolm,  Malcolm! 
[An  hour  passes.  .  .  . 

The  fire  has  fallen  in,  and  smoulders  be- 
neath such  a  weight  of  ash  and  charred 
wood  that  the  room  is  in  complete  dark- 
ness. Outside,  utter  silence.  The  wind 
has  suddenly  lulled.  Malcolm  and  Helda 
lie  in  each  other's  arms,  but  neither  has 
spoken   for   some   time.] 

HELDA 

Malcolm ! 

74 


A  Northern  Night 

MALCOLM 

My  darling! 

HELDA 

You  will  not  go  to  sleep?  I  am  so  happy, 
oh,  I  am  so  happy,  here  in  your  arms,  Mal- 
colm; but  I  should  be  afraid  if  you  slept. 

MALCOLM 

Do  you  think  I  would  sleep,  Helda,  to- 
night of  all  nights  in  my  life? 

HELDA 

[After  a  long  silence.]     It  is  so  still. 

MALCOLM 

The  wind  has  suddenly  fallen. 

HELDA 

Move    your    arm,    dear.     Malcolm,  .  .  . 
Malcolm,   I   wish   it   were  not   so   dark!    I 
never  knew  such  darkness. 

MALCOLM 

The  fire  smoulders.  It  will  not  go  out. 
When  we  rise,  I  shall  blow  the  flame  into  life 
again. 

HELDA 

I  wish  it  were  not  so  profoundly,  so  fear- 
fully dark. 

MALCOLM 

Sweetheart,  if  you  are  unhappy,  I  will  stir 

up  the  heart  of  it  at  once.     I  will  do  it  now. 

[Rises  from  the  bed,  and  stirs  the  smoulder- 

75 


William  Sharp 

ing  fire.  A  flame  shoots  up  and  illu- 
mines the  room  for  a  moment.  Malcolm 
places  a  fresh  log  in  the  glowing  hollow 
he  has  disclosed,  and  returns  to  Helda. 
She  is  cowering  against  the  wall,  and 
shivering  with  fear.  As  soon  as  he  is 
beside  her  she  clings  close  to  him,  and 
moans  faintly.] 

MALCOLM 
Helda,  Helda,  what  ails  you?    What  is  it? 

HELDA 

Malcolm,  let  us  go ;  let  us  go  at  once ! 

MALCOLM 

Dearest,  do  not  be  so  frightened  at  noth- 
ing. Are  we  to  lose  this  precious  night  to- 
gether because  of  a  death-watch  ticking  in 
the  wall,  or  a  blown  leaf  tapping  against  the 
window  ? 

HELDA 

Oh,  Malcolm,  what  was  it? 

MALCOLM 

What?    When? 

HELDA 

When  you  rose  and  stirred  the  logs,  and 
the  flame  shot  up  for  a  moment,  I  saw  .  .  . 

[Stops,  shuddering.] 
MALCOLM 

Tell  me,  darling.  .  .  . 

HELDA 

I    saw    some    one  —  a  —  a  —  something  — 

76 


A  Northern  Night 

rise  from  the  end  of  the  bed  and  slip  into  the 
darkness. 

MALCOLM 

Oh,  foolish  Helda,  to  be  so  easily  fright- 
ened by  my  shadow.  Of  course  my  shadow 
followed  me,  dear! 

HELDA 

It  was  when  you  were  at  the  fire!  The  — 
the  —  shadow  was  not  yours. 

MALCOLM 

Ah,  there  is  a  wild  bird  fluttering  in  that 
little  heart  of  yours ! 

HELDA 

Dear,  when  you  kiss  me  so  I  fear  nothing 
more.     Nothing  —  nothing  —  nothing ! 

MALCOLM 

Nothing  —  nothing  —  nothing ! 

HELDA 

Ah,  yes,  hold  me  close,  close!  My  dar- 
ling, I  have  given  you  all.  Nothing  now  can 
come  between  us! 

MALCOLM 

Nothing,  my  beautiful  Helda.  And,  dear 
[whispering],  you  do  not  wish  to  go  yet? 
The  morning  is  still  far  off. 

HELDA 

[Whispering  lower  still,  and  with  a  low, 
glad  cry.~\     Not  now,  not  now ! 

77 


William  Sharp 

[Profound  silence,  save  for  their  sighs  and 
kisses.] 

MALCOLM 

[In  a  low  voice.]  And  when  old  Archi- 
bald Graeme  .  .  . 

HELDA 

[Starting  half  up.']  Hark!  What  was 
that? 

MALCOLM 

[Listening.]  It  was  nothing.  Perhaps 
the  wind  rose  and  fell. 

HELDA 

[Fearfully.]  If  it  was  the  wind,  it  is  in 
the  house !  I  hear  it  lifting  faintly  from  step 
to  step. 

MALCOLM 

[Listening  more  intently.]  There  must  be 
v/ind  behind  the  house.  It  is  causing 
draughts  to  play  through  the  chinks  and  in 
the  bare  rooms. 

HELDA 

[Sitting  up  in  bed  and  staring  through  the 
darkness.]     It  is  in  the  corridor! 

MALCOLM 

In  the  corridor? 

HELDA 

Yes;  that  low,  ruffling  sound. 

78 


A  Northern  Night 

MALCOLM 

The  wind  is  rising. 

HELDA 

[Whispering.']  Malcolm,  don't  move; 
don't  stir.     It  is  at  the  door. 

MALCOLM 

I  hear  it :  it  is  a  current  of  air  swirling  the 
dust  along  the  passage. 

HELDA 

[With  a  low  cry.]  Oh,  Malcolm,  it  is  in 
the  room!  What  is  it  that  is  moving  so 
softly  to  and  fro? 

MALCOLM 

[Springing  from  the  bed.]  Ah,  I  thought 
so.  The  window  is  open:  I  must  have  left 
the  latch  unfastened.  There :  it  will  not  open 
again ! 

HELDA 

The  window  was  not  open  before,  Mal- 
colm. 

MALCOLM 

Ha!  there  is  the  snow  at  last!  I  hear  its 
shovelling  sound  against  the  gable.  Darling, 
we  must  go  soon. 

HELDA 

[Sobbing  with  fear.]  It  is  in  the  room! 
It  is  in  the  room!     It  is  in  the  room! 

79 


William  Sharp 

MALCOLM 

There  is  no  one  here  but  ourselves,  Helda. 
That  sound  is  the  shoving  of  the  snow  along 
the  walls. 

HELDA 

It  is  some  one  moving  round  the  room.  O 
Christ,  help  us! 

MALCOLM 

Listen ! 

[They  both  sit  up,  listening  intently.  For 
nearly  three  minutes  there  is  profound 
silence.] 

HELDA 

Oh,  my  God! 

MALCOLM 

Be  still,  for  God's  sake!    Do  not  move. 

r HELDA 

[Shudderingly.]     Ah-h-h-h ! 

MALCOLM 

[In  a  low  voice.]     Some  one  is  at  the  door. 

HELDA 

[In  a  dull  echo.]     Some  one  is  at  the  door. 

MALCOLM 

[Whisperingly.]  Quick,  Helda!  rise  and 
dress. 

HELDA 

I  cannot.  Oh,  my  God,  what  is  it  that 
moves  about  the  room?  What  is  within  the 
door?    Oh,  Malcolm,  save  me! 

80 


~A  Northern  Night 

MALCOLM 

Let  me  go!    Do  not  be  frightened:  I  shall 
move  that  log,  and  then  we  shall  see. 

[Rises,  and  pulls  the  log  back.  A  shower  of 
sparks  ascends:  and  then  a  clear,  yellow 
flame  shoots  up  and  illumines  the  room. 
There  is  a  wild  wail  of  wind  in  the 
chimney,  and  then  a  long,  querulous 
sighing  sound,  culminating  in  a  rising 
moan.  A  handful  of  sleety  snow  is 
dashed  by  a  wind-eddy  against  the  win- 
dow.] 

MALCOLM 

Arise ! 

HELDA 

Come  to  me.     I  — 

[Helda  cowers  back  in  her  bed  with,  lips 
drawn  taut  with  terror  and  eyes  star- 
ing wildly.] 

MALCOLM 

[Suddenly,   in   a  loud,   imperative  voice.'] 
Who  is  there? 

[Dead  silence.] 
MALCOLM 
Who  is  there? 

[Dead  silence.] 
HELDA 

[With    a    strange,    sobbing    cry.]     It    is 
Death! 

[She  falls  back  in  a  death-like  swoon.] 

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William  Sharp 

MALCOLM 

Oh,  my  God. 

[He  takes  Helda  in  his  arms,  kissing  her 
passionately.  Slowly,  at  last,  she  opens 
her  eyes.] 

MALCOLM 
My   darling,    my    darling!     Be    frightened 
no  more,   Helda!  .  .  .  Dearest,  it  is   I.  .  .  . 
Malcolm!  .  .  .  There  is  no  one  there. 

HELDA 

[Whispering.]  Oh,  Malcolm,  did  you  hear 
what  he  said? 

MALCOLM 

You  were  frightened  by  the  stillness;  .  .  . 
by  the  wind;  .  .  .  the  wandering  eddies  of 
air  in  this  old  place;  ...  by  ...  by  ..  . 

HELDA 

God  grant  it!  Dear,  we  have  paid  bitterly 
for  our  joy. 

MALCOLM 

Not  too  much,  Helda!  I  would  go 
through  Hell  itself  for  such  rapture  as  we 
have  known. 

HELDA 

My  darling,  I  can  never  face  him  —  I  can 
never  face  him,  with  his  fierce,  penetrating 
eyes!  Ah,  would  to  God  that  we  two  could 
go  away  together,  and  be  man  and  wife,  and 
forget  him  —  forget  all ! 
82 


A  Northern  Night 

MALCOLM 

Even  yet,  Helda  — 

HELDA 

No,  no,  no !  You  know  it  cannot  be.  We 
have  sinned  enough.  Malcolm,  are  you  sure 
no  one  is  there? 

MALCOLM 

There  is  not  a  living  soul  in  this  place  be- 
sides ourselves.  .  .  .  But  we  had  best  go 
now,  dear.  In  another  hour  it  will  be  day- 
light. 

HELDA 

Shall  we  go,  Malcolm  ?     It  is  so  dark. 

[He  kisses  her  tenderly,  and  then  goes  to 
the  fire  and  stirs  it  afresh,  hurriedly  puts 
on  his  clothes,  goes  to  the  door,  opens  it, 
and,  staring  into  the  dark  corridor,  lis- 
tens intently.  Helda  dresses  herself 
rapidly,  and  erelong  glides  to  his  side.] 

MALCOLM 
I  will  get  the  torch. 

[Goes  and  returns  with  it  lit] 

MALCOLM 

Let  us  go.     Take  my  hand. 

[They  descend  the  long,  dark,  winding  stair- 
way.   The  torch  spurtles  and  goes  out] 

MALCOLM 

[Suddenly.]     Who  goes  there? 

[No  answer.] 

83 


William  Sharp 

MALCOLM 

Who  goes  there? 

HELDA 

[Clinging  close.]  Some  one  brushed  past 
me  just  now!  .  .  .  Oh,  Malcolm! 

[Holding  each  other's  hands  they  stumble 
on  and,  more  by  chance  than  foreknow- 
ledge, reach  the  door  that  leads  into  the 
court.  They  search  awhile  for  the  skates 
they  left  there,  but  in  the  dark  do  not 
find  them.  At  last  they  are  found. 
They  go  out,  across  the  stone  court, 
and  as  they  go  through  the  old  ruined 
gate  they  look  up.  A  brilliant,  red  light 
gleams  through  the  window  of  the  room 
they  had  been  in. 

Hand  in  hand,  they  hasten  along  the  snow- 
banked  track  till  they  reach  the  loch. 
There  they  hurriedly  put  on  their  skates. 

.     In  less  than  a  minute  thereafter  they  are 

flying  along  the  black  ice,  his  left  hand 

holding  her  right.] 
I 

HELDA 

Quick,  Malcolm! 

MALCOLM 

We    cannot    go    quicker.     The    snow    has 
drifted  a  little  here. 

HELDA 

Is  that  the  wind  following  us? 

84 


A  Northern  Night 

MALCOLM 

There  is  no  wind.  Make  haste.  We  must 
not  stop. 

[After  a  brief  interval:] 

HELDA 

Malcolm!  Malcolm  there  is  some  one  else 
on  the  loch ! 

MALCOLM 

Impossible.     Come,    Helda,    be    brave.     It 
will  be  daylight  soon.     In  five  minutes  more      1^y. 
we'll  have  crossed  the  reach,  and  then  have 
only  the  Water  of  Sorrow  to  skate  up  till  we 
come  to  the  Black  Kyle.    / 

HELDA 

It  is  coming  this  way!  He  —  he  —  the 
skater  —  is  coming  this  way! 

/      MALCOLM 

He  must  skate  well  if  he  overtake  us, 
Helda!  Come,  the  ice  is  clearer  again.  I 
see  it:  it  is  blacker  than  the  night. 

HELDA 

Are  we  going  in  the  right  direction? 

MALCOLM 

Yes,  yes;  come  on,  come  on! 


[They  fly  along  at  their  utmost  speed.  Sud- 
\      denly    Helda    sways,    and    almost    falls. 
Malcolm    supports    her,    and   they   skate 
on,  but  more  slowly.] 

85 


William  Sharft 

HELDA 

[Faintly.]     Some  one  passed  us! 

MALCOLM 

[Eagerly.']     Look  yonder!     I  can  see  the 
shadowy  ridge  of  Ben  Malon!    It  is  day! 

HELDA 

I  can  go  no  further.    Oh,  hold  me,  Mal- 
colm. 

[He  takes  her  in  his  arms.  She  slowly  re- 
covers. Gradually  an  ashy  grey  gloom 
prevails  to  the  eastward.  They  wait  si- 
lently. Erelong  they  see  the  whole  mass 
of  Ben  Malon  looming  through  the  dusk. 
The  ice  gleams  like  white  salt  in  a  dark 
cavern.  Soon  the  loch  is  visible  for  some 
distance;  and,  a  short  way  beyond  them, 
the  narrow  mile-long  reach  of  it  known 
as  the  Water  of  Sorrow.] 

MALCOLM 

Helda,  dearest,  can  you  go  on  now?    The 
night  is  over.  .  .  . 

HELDA 

[With  a  low,  choking  sob.]     Thank  God, 
thank  God! 

[They  skate  on.  The  dawn  vaguely  and 
slowly  advances.  Soon  they  enter  the 
frozen  Water  of  Sorrow.  The  few  trees 
along  its  banks  are  still  blotches  of 
black.  Neither  speaks,  but,  hand  in  hand, 
both   sway  onward   as   scythes   tirelessly 

86 


A  Northern  Night 

sweeping  through  leagues  of  grass.  At 
last  they  reach  the  end  of  the  Water 
of  Sorrow,  and  enter  the  Black  Kyle.] 

MALCOLM 
In  ten  minutes,  Helda,  we'll  be  ©n  Urquhar 
Water,  and  then  you  will  be  almost  at  home. 
Look    behind!    A    white   mist    is    sweeping 
along  after  us. 

HELDA 

I  dare  not  look  behind. 

[With  strained  eyes  and  white,  rigid  face, 
Helda  skates  on,  Malcolm  still  holding 
her  hand.  The  white  wreath  of  mist 
gains  on  them.  Helda's  breath  comes 
quick  and  hard,  but  she  increases  her 
speed.  Malcolm  sways  as  he  strives  to 
keep  up  with  her.  They  swing  out  of 
the  Black  Kyle  and  into  Urquhar  Water. 
A  small  islet  looms  in  front  of  them. 
Dimly  through  the  grey,  chill  gloom 
rises  the  rugged  outlines  of  Urquhar. 
The  loch  forks, —  one  fork  toward  the 
castle;  the  other,  and  longer,  to  the 
right] 

MALCOLM 

Why? 

HELDA 

I  dare  not  look  behind. 

HELDA 

[Gaspingly.]     At  last! 
87 


William  Sharp 

MALCOLM 

Sst!  There  is  some  one  coming  down  the 
Narrow  Water! 

HELDA 

Quick !  quick !     Let  us  gain  the  islet ! 

[They  reach  it,  and  Helda  sinks  exhausted 
among  a  bed  of  reeds  which  crackle 
loudly.  Malcolm  has  just  time  to  re- 
cover his  balance  and  to  swing  round, 
when  a  skater  dashes  from  the  hidden 
Narrow  and  flies  across  the  broad  and 
towards  the  islet.  He  sees  Malcolm, 
and  hastes  in  his  direction,  but  without 
coming  right  for  him.  Malcolm  recog- 
nises him  as  Martin  Brooks,  a  groom 
from  Urquhar.] 

MALCOLM 
[Shouting.]     Ho!   Martin!   Martin!     Stop 
a  moment!     Where  are  you  going?     Is  the 
side-way  open? 

MARTIN 

[Calling,  as  he  swerves  for  a  moment  or 
two.]  I  can't  stop,  sir!  I  am  off  across  the 
loch  and  through  the  Glen  of  Dusker  to  fetch 
Dr.  James  Graeme. 

MALCOLM 

What  is  wrong? 

MARTIN 

[Shouting,  with  his  hand  to  his  mouth.]     In 
the  dead  o'  night  we  heard  a  wild  cry,  but  no 
88 


A  Northern  Night 

one  knew  what  it  was.  An  hour  ago  or  less 
the  dogs  were  howling  through  the  house. 
.  .  .  We  found  him,  sitting  straight  up  and 
staring  at  us,  with  an  awful  look  on  his  face, 
stone  dead.     He  must  a'  died  at  midnight. 

MALCOLM 

Who?    Who? 

MARTIN 

[Poising  a  moment,  ere  he  swings  away 
again.]     Archibald  Graeme! 

[His  flying  figure  disappears  in  the  gloom. 
The  mist-wreath  comes  rapidly  out  of 
the  kyle  towards  the  islet.  A  thin  snow 
begins  to  fall.] 

HELD  A 

[Shaken  with  convulsive  sobs.]     Oh,  God! 
Oh,  God!    Oh,  God! 


89 


Qu' horribles,  ces  heures  nocturnes! 

Le  Barbare. 


The  Black  Madonna 


THE  BLACK  MADONNA 

[The  fire  of  the  setting  sun  turns  the  ex- 
treme of  the  forest  into  a  wave  of 
flame.  A  river  of  withdrawing  light  per- 
vades the  aisles  of  the  ancient  trees,  and, 
falling  over  the  shoulder  of  a  vast, 
smooth  slab  of  stone  that  rises  solitary  in 
an  open  place,  pours  in  a  flood  across 
the  glade  and  upon  the  broken  columns 
and  inchoate  ruins  of  what  in  immemo- 
rial time  had  been  a  gigantic  temple,  the 
fane  of  a  perished  god,  or  of  many  gods. 
As  the  flaming  disc  rapidly  descends,  the 
stream  of  red  light  narrows,  till,  quiver- 
ing and  palpitating,  it  rests  as  a  bloody 
sword  upon  a  colossal  statue  of  black 
marble,  facing  westward.  The  statue  is 
that  of  a  woman,  and  is  as  of  a  Titan  of 
old-time. 

A  great  majesty  is  upon  the  face,  with 
its  moveless  yet  seeing  eyes;  its  faint, 
inscrutable  smile.  Upon  the  triple- 
ledged  pedestal,  worn  at  the  edges  like 
unto  swords  ground  again  and  again, 
lie  masses  of  large  white  flowers,  whose 
heavy  fragrance  rises  in  a  faint  blue 
vapor  drawn  forth  with  the  sudden  sus- 
piration  of  the  earth  by  the  first  twi- 
light chill. 

In  the  wide  place  beyond  the  white  slab 
of     stone  —  hurled     thither,     or     raised, 

93 


William  Sharp 

none  knows  when  or  how  —  is  gathered 
a  dark  multitude,  silent,  expectant. 
Many  are  Arab  tribesmen,  the  remnant 
of  a  strange  sect  driven  southward ;  but 
most  are  Nubians,  or  that  unnamed, 
swarthy  race  to  whom  both  Arab  and 
Negro  are  as  children.  All,  save  the 
priests,  of  whom  the  elder  are  clad  in 
white  robes  and  the  younger  girt  about 
by  scarlet  sashes,  are  naked.  Behind 
the  men,  at  a  short  distance  apart,  are 
the  women;  each  virgin  with  an  ivory 
circlet  round  the  neck,  each  mother  or 
pregnant  woman  with  a  thin  gold  band 
round  the  left  arm.  Between  the  long 
double  line  of  the  priests  and  the  silent 
multitude  stands  a  group  of  five  youths 
and  five  maidens;  each  victim  crowned 
with  heavy,  drooping,  white  flowers; 
each  motionless,  morose;  all  with  eyes 
fixt  on  the  trodden  earth  at  their  feet. 
The  younger  priests  suddenly  strike 
together  square  brazen  cymbals,  deeply 
chased  with  signs  and  letters  of  a  perished 
tongue.  A  shrill,  screaming  cry  goes  up 
from  the  people,  followed  by  a  prolonged 
silence.  Not  a  man  moves,  not  a  woman 
sighs.  Only  a  shiver  contracts  the  skin 
of  the  foremost  girl  in  the  small  central 
group.  Then  the  elder  priests  advance 
slowly,  chanting  monotonously:] 

CHORUS   OF   THE   PRIESTS 

We  are  thy  children,  O  mighty  Mother! 
We  are  the  slain  of  thy  spoil,  O  Slayer! 
94 


The  Black  Madonna 

We  are  thy   thoughts   that  are  fulfilled,   O 

Thinker! 
Have  pity  upon  us! 

[And  from'  all  the  multitude  comes  as  with 
one  shrill,  screaming  voice:] 

Have  pity  upon  us!  Have  pity  upon  us! 
Have  pity  upon  us! 

THE   PRIESTS 

Thou  wast,  before  the  first  child  came 
through  the  dark  gate  of  the  womb! 

Thou  wast,  before  ever  woman  knew  man! 

Thou  wast,  before  the  shadow  of  man  moved 
athzvart  the  grass! 

Thou  wast,  and  thou  art! 

THE   MULTITUDE 

Have  pity  upon  us!  Have  pity  upon  us! 
Have  pity  upon  us! 

THE   PRIESTS 

Hail,  thou  who  art  more  fair  than  the  dawn, 

more  dark  than  night! 
Hail,    thou,    white    as    ivory    or    veiled    in 

shadow! 
Hail,  thou  of  many  names,  and  immortal! 
Hail,  Mother  of  God,  Sister  of  the  Christ, 

Bride  of  the  Prophet! 

THE   MULTITUDE 

Have  pity  upon  us!  Have  pity  upon  us! 
Have  pity  upon  us! 

95 


William  Sharp 

THE   PRIESTS 

O  moon  of  night,  O  morning  star!  Con- 
soler!   Slayer! 

Thou,  zvho  lovest  shadow,  and  fear,  and  sud- 
den death! 

Who  art  the  smile  that  looks  upon  women 
and  children! 

Who  hast  the  heart  of  man  in  thy  grip  as  in 
a  vice; 

Who  hast  his  pride  and  strength  in  thy  sigh 
of  y  ester  eve; 

Who  hast  his  being  in  thy  breath  that  goetk 
forth,  and  is  not! 

THE   MULTITUDE 

Have  pity  upon  us!  Have  pity  upon  us! 
Have  pity  upon  us! 

THE  PRIESTS 

We  know  thee  not,  nor  the  way  of  the,  O 

Queen! 
But  we  bring  thee  what  thou  lovedst  of  old, 

and  forever: 
The  white  flowers  of  our  forests  and  the  red 

flowers  of  our  bodies! 
Take  them  and  slay  not,  O  Slayer! 
For  we  are  thy  slaves,  O  Mother  of  Life! 
We   are    the   dust    of   thy    tireless   feet,    O 

Mother  of  God! 

[As  the  white-robed  priests  advance  slowly 

96 


The  Black  Madonna 

towards  the  Black  Madonna,  the  younger 
tear  off  their  scarlet  sashes,  and,  seizing 
the  five  maidens,  bind  them  together,  left 
arm  to  right  and  hand  to  hand :  and  then 
in  like  fashion  do  they  bind  the  five 
youths.  Thereafter  the  victims  move 
silently  forward,  till  they  pass  through 
the  ranks  of  the  priests  and  stand  upon 
the  lowest  edge  of  the  pedestal  of  the 
great  statue.  Toward  each  steps,  and  be- 
hind each  stands,  a  naked  priest,  each 
holding  a  narrow,  irregular  sword  of 
antique  fashion.] 

THE   ELDER   PRIESTS 

O  Mother  of  God! 

THE   YOUNGER   PRIESTS 

O  Slayer,  be  pitiful! 

THE   VICTIMS 

O  Mother  of  God!     O  Slayer!  be  merciful! 

THE   MULTITUDE 

[In  a  loud,  screaming  voice.]  Have  pity 
upon  us!  Have  pity  upon  us!.-  Have  pity 
upon  us! 

[The  last  blood-red  gleam  fades  from  the 
Black  Madonna,  and  flashes  this  way  and 
that  for  a  moment  from  the  ten  sword- 
knives  that  cut  the  air  and  plunge  be- 
neath the  shoulders  and  to  the  heart  of 
each  victim.  A  wide  spirt  of  blood  rains 
up  on  the  white  flowers  at  the  base  of 
the  colossal  figure;  where  also  speedily 

97 


William  Sharp 

lie,    dark    amidst    welling    crimson,    the 
motionless  bodies  of  the  slain.] 

THE   PRIESTS 

Behold,  O  Mother  of  God, 

The  white  flowers  of  our  forests  and  the  red 

flowers  of  our  bodies! 
Have  pity,  O  Compassionate! 
Be  merciful,  O  Queen! 

THE   MULTITUDE 

Have   pity   upon   us!    Have   pity   upon   us! 
Have  pity  upon  us! 

[But  at  the  swift  coming  of  the  darkness, 
the  priests  hastily  cover  the  dead  with 
the  masses  of  the  white  flowers;  and 
one  by  one,  and  group  by  group,  the 
multitude  melts  away.  When  all  are 
gone  save  the  young  chief  Bihr,  and  a 
few  of  his  following,  the  priests  pros- 
trate themselves  before  the  Black  Ma- 
donna, and  pray  to  her  to  vouchsafe  a 
sign. 
From  the  mouth  of  the  carven  figure  comes 
a  hollow  voice,  muffled  as  the  reverbera- 
tion of  thunder  among  distant  hills:] 

THE   BLACK    MADONNA 

I  hearken. 

THE   PRIESTS 

[Prostrate.]     Wilt  thou  slay,  O  Slayer? 

THE  BLACK    MADONNA 

Yea,  verily. 

98 


The  Black  Madonna 

THE   PRIESTS 

[In  a  rising  chant.]     Wilt  thou   save,   O 
Mother  of  God? 

THE  BLACK   MADONNA 

I  save. 

THE   PRIESTS 

Can  one  see  thee  and  live  ? 

THE  BLACK    MADONNA 

At  the  Gate  of  Death. 

[Whereafter  no  sound  comes  from  the 
statue,  already  dim  in  the  darkness  that 
has  crept  from  the  forest.  The  priests 
rise,  and  disappear  in  silent  groups  under 
the  trees. 
The  thin  crescent  moon  slowly  wanes.  A 
phosphorescent  glow  from  orchids  and 
parasitic  growths  shimmers  intermit- 
tently in  the  forest.  A  wavering  beam  of 
starlight  falls  upon  the  right  breast  of 
the  Black  Madonna;  then  slowly  down- 
ward to  her  feet;  then  upon  the  motion- 
less figure  of  Bihr,  the  warrior-chief. 
None  saw  him  steal  thither;  none  knows 
that  he  has  braved  the  wrath  of  the 
slayer:  for  it  is  the  sacred  time,  when 
it  is  death  to  enter  the  glade.] 

BIHR 
[In  a  low  voice.']    Speak,  Spirit  that  dwell- 

eth   here   from   of   old Speak,   for   I 

would  have  word  with  thee.     I  fear  thee  not, 
O   Mother   of   God,   for  the   priests   of  the 

99 


William  Sharp 

Christ  who  is  thy  brother  say  that  thou  wert 

but  a  woman.  .  .  .  And  it  may  be  —  it  may 

be  —  what  say  the  children  of  the  Prophet? 

—  that  there  is  but  one  God,  and  he  is  Allah. 

[Deep  silence.    From  the  desert  beyond  the 

forest    comes    the    hollow    roaring    of 

lions.] 

BIHR 
[In  a  loud  chant.]  To  the  north  and  to 
the  east  I  have  seen  many  figures  like  unto 
thine,  gods  and  goddesses:  some  mightier 
than  thou  art  —  vast  sphinxes  by  the  flood  of 
Nilus,  gigantic  faces  rising  out  of  the  sands 
of  the  desert.  And  none  spake,  for  silence 
is  come  upon  them;  and  none  slays,  for  the 
strength  of  the  gods  passes  away  even  as  the 
strength  of  men. 

[Deep  silence.  From  the  obscure  waste  of 
the  forest  come  snarling  cries,  long- 
drawn  howls,  and  the  low,  moaning  sigh 
of  the  wind.] 

BIHR 
[Mockingly.]  For  I  will  not  be  thrall  to  a 
woman,  and  the  priests  shall  not  bend  me  to 
their  will  as  a  slave  unto  the  yoke.  If  thou 
thyself  art  God,  speak,  and  I  shall  be  thy 
slave  to  do  thy  will.  .  .  .  Thrice  have  I  come 
hither  at  the  new  moon,  and  thrice  do  I  go 
hence  uncomforted.  .  .  .  What  voice  was 
that   which    spoke   ere  the  victims   died?     I 

ioo 


The  Black  Madonna 

know  not ;  but  it  hath  reached  mine  ears  never 
save  when  the  priests  are  by.  Nay  [laughing 
low],  O  Mother  of  God,  I  — 

[Suddenly  he  trembles  all  over  and  falls  on 
his  knees,  for  from  the  blackness  above 
him  comes  a  voice:] 

THE  BLACK    MADONNA 

What  would'st  thou  ? 

BIHR 

[Hoarsely.]  Have  mercy  upon  me,  O 
Queen ! 

THE  BLACK   MADONNA 

What  would'st  thou  ? 

BIHR 

I  worship  thee,  Mother  of  God!  Slayer 
and  Saver! 

THE  BLACK   MADONNA 

What  would'st  thou? 

BIHR 

[Tremulously.]  Show  me  thyself,  thyself, 
even  for  this  one  time,  O  Strength  and  Wis- 
dom! 

[Deep  silence.  The  wind  in  the  forest 
passes  away  with  a  faint  wailing  sound. 
The  dull  roaring  of  lions  rises  and  falls 
in  the  distance.  A  soft,  yellow  light  il- 
lumes the  statue,  as  though  another  moon 
were  rising  behind  the  temple. 
A  great  terror  comes  upon  Bihr  the  Chief, 
and  he  falls  prostrate  at  the  base  of  the 
Black  Madonna. 

IOI 


William  Sharp 

His  eyes  are  open,  but  they  see  naught  save 
the  burnt  spikes  of  trodden  grass,  sere 
and  stiff  save  where  damp  with  newly 
shed  blood ;  and  deaf  are  his  ears,  though 
he  waits  for  he  knows  not  what  sound 
from  above. 

Suddenly  he  starts,  and  the  sweat  mats  the 
hair  on  his  forehead  when  he  feels  a 
touch  on  his  right  shoulder.  Looking 
slowly  round  he  sees  a  woman,  tall  and 
of  a  lithe  and  noble  body.  He  sees  that 
her  skin  is  dark,  yet  not  of  the  black- 
ness of  the  South.  Two  spheres  of 
wrought  gold  cover  her  breasts ;  and 
from  the  serpentine  zone  round  her 
waist  is  looped  a  dusky  veil,  spangled 
with  shining  points.  In  her  eyes,  large 
as  those  of  the  desert-antelope,  is  the 
loveliness  and  the  pathos  and  the  pain 
of  twilight.] 

BIHR 

[Trembling.]     Art  thou  —  art  thou  — 

THE  BLACK    MADONNA 

I  am  she  whom  thou  worshippest. 

BIHR 

[Looking  at  the  colossal  statue,  irradiated 
by  the  strange  light  that  comes  he  knows  not 
whence;  and  then  at  the  beautiful  apparition 
by  his  side.']  Thou  art  the  Black  Madonna, 
the  Mother  of  God! 

THE  BLACK    MADONNA 

Thou  sayest  it. 

102 


The  Black  Madonna 

BIHR 

[Slowly  raising  himself,  and  resting  on  one 
knee.]  Thou  hast  heard  my  prayer,  O 
Queen ! 

THE  BLACK   MADONNA 

Even  so. 

BIHR 

[Taking  heart  because  of  the  sweet  and 
thrilling  humanity  of  the  goddess.']  O  Slayer 
and  Saver,  is  the  lightning  thine  and  the  fire 
that  is  in  the  earth?  Canst  thou  whirl  the 
stars  as  from  a  sling,  and  light  the  moun- 
tainous lands  to  the  South  with  falling  me- 
teors? O  Queen,  destroy  me  not,  for  I  am 
thy  slave,  and  weaker  than  thy  breath:  but 
canst  thou  stretch  forth  thine  hand  and  say 
yea  to  the  lightning,  and  bid  silence  unto  the 
thunder  ere  it  breed  the  bolts  that  smite? 
For  if  — 

THE  BLACK   MADONNA 

I  make  and  I  unmake.  This  cometh  and 
that  goeth,  and  I  am  — 

BIHR 

And  thou  art  — 

THE  BLACK   MADONNA 

I  was  Ashtaroth  of  old.  Men  have  called 
me  many  names.  All  things  change,  but  I 
change  not.     Know  me,  O  slave!    I  am  the 

103 


William  Sharp 

Mother   of   God.     I    am   the    Sister   of   the 
Christ.    I  am  the  Bride  of  the  Prophet. 

BIHR 

[With  awe.]  And  thou  art  the  very- 
Prophet,  and  the  very  Christ,  and  the  very 
God!  Each  speaketh  in  thee,  who  art  older 
than  they  are :   each  — 

THE  BLACK    MADONNA 

I  am  the  Prophet. 

BIHR 

Hail,  O  Lord  of  Deliverance! 

THE  BLACK    MADONNA 

I  am  the  Christ,  the  Son  of  God. 

BIHR 

Hail,  O  most  Patient,  most  Merciful ! 

THE  BLACK    MADONNA 

I  am  the  Lord  thy  God. 

BIHR 

Hail,  Giver  of  Life  and  Death! 

THE  BLACK    MADONNA 

Yet  here  none  is;  for  each  goeth  or  each 
cometh  as  I  will.     I  only  am  eternal. 

BIHR 

[Crawling  forward  and  kissing  her  feet.] 
Behold,  I  am  thy  slave  to  do  thy  will:  thy 
sword  to  slay :  thy  spear  to  follow :  thy  hound 
to  track  to  thine  enemies.  I  am  dust  beneath 
thy  feet.     Do  with  me  as  thou  wilt. 

104 


The  Black  Madonna 

THE  BLACK   MADONNA 

[Slowly,  and  looking  at  him  strangely.] 
Thou  shalt  be  my  High  Priest.  .  .  .  Come 
back  to-morrow,  an  hour  after  the  setting  of 
the  sun. 

[As  Bihr  the  Chief  rises  and  goes  into  the 
shadow,  she  stares  steadily  after  him; 
and  a  deep  fear  dwells  in  the  twilight 
of  her  eyes.  Then,  turning,  she  stands 
awhile  by  the  slain  bodies  of  the  vic- 
tims of  the  sacrifice;  and,  having  lightly 
brushed  away  with  her  foot  the  flow- 
ers above  each  face,  looks  long  on  the 
mystery  of  death.  And  when  at  last 
she  glides  by  the  great  statue  and 
passes  into  the  ruins  beyond,  there  is 
no  longer  any  glow  of  light,  and  a  deep 
darkness  covers  the  glade.  From  the 
deeper  darkness  beyond  comes  the  howl- 
ing of  hyenas,  the  shrill  screaming  of  a 
furious  beast  of  prey,  and  the  sudden 
bursting  roar  of  lion   answering  lion. 

When  the  dawn  breaks,  and  a  pale,  waver- 
ing light  glimmers  athwart  the  smooth, 
white  crag  that,  on  the  farther  verge 
of  the  glade,  faces  the  Black  Madonna, 
there  is  nought  upon  the  pedestal  save 
a  ruin  of  bloodied,  trampled  flowers, 
though  the  sere,  yellow  grass  is  stained 
in  long  trails  across  the  open.  The 
dawn  withdraws  again,  but  ere  long 
suddenly  wells  forth,  and  it  is  as  though 
the    light   wind    were   bearing   over   the 

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William  Sharp 

forest  a  multitude  of  soft,  grey  fea- 
thers from  the  breasts  of  doves.  Then 
the  dim  concourse  of  feathers  is  as 
though  innumerable  leaves  of  wild  roses 
were  falling,  falling,  petal  by  petal  un- 
curling into  a  rosy  flame  that  wafts  up- 
ward and  onward.  The  stars  have 
grown  suddenly  pale,  and  the  fires  of 
Phosphor  burn  green  in  the  midst  of  a 
palpitating  haze  of  pink.  With  a 
mighty  rush,  the  sun  swings  through  the 
gates  of  the  East,  tossing  aside  his 
golden,  fiery  mane  as  he  fronts  the  new 
day. 

And  the  going  of  the  day  is  from  morning 
silence  unto  noon  silence,  and  from  the 
silence  of  the  afternoon  unto  the  silence 
of  the  eve.  Once  more,  towards  the  set- 
ting of  the  sun,  the  multitude  comes  out 
of  the  forest,  from  the  east  and  from  the 
west,  and  from  the  north  and  from  the 
south ;  once  more  the  priests  sing  the  sa- 
cred hymns:  once  more  the  people  sup- 
plicate as  with  one  shrill,  screaming 
voice,  Have  pity  upon  us!  Have  pity 
upon  us!  Have  pity  upon  us!  Once 
more  the  victims  are  slain:  of  little 
children  who  might  one  day  shake  the 
spear  and  slay,  five;  and  of  little  chil- 
dren who  would  one  day  bear  and  bring 
forth,  five. 

Yet  again  an  hour  passes  after  the  setting 
of  the  sun.  There  is  no  moon  to  lighten 
the  darkness  and  the  silence;  but  a  soft 
glow  falleth  from  the  temple,  and  upon 

1 06 


The  Black  Madonna 

the  man  who  kneels  before  the  Black 
Madonna.  But  when  Bihr,  having  no 
sign  vouchsafed,  and  hearing  no  sound, 
and  discerning  nought  upon  the  carven 
face,  neither  tremor  of  the  lips  nor  life 
in  the  lifeless  eyes,  suddenly  sees  the 
goddess,  glorious  in  her  beauty  that  is 
as  of  the  night,  coming  towards  him 
from  out  of  the  ruins,  his  heart  leaps 
within  him  in  strange  joy  and  dread. 
Scarce  knowing  what  he  does,  he  springs 
to  his  feet,  trembling  as  a  reed  that 
leans  against  the  flank  of  a  lioness  by 
the   water-pool.] 

BIHR 
[Yearning,  with  supplicating  arms.]     Hail, 
God!  .  .  .  Goddess!     Most   Beautiful! 

[She  draws  nigh  to  him,  looking  at  him  the 
while  out  of  the  deep  twilight  of  her 
eyes.] 

THE  BLACK   MADONNA 

What  would'st  thou? 

BIHR 

[Wildly,  stepping  close,  but  halting  in 
dread.]  Thou  art  no  Mother  of  God,  O  God- 
dess, Queen,  Most  Beautiful! 

THE  BLACK   MADONNA 

What  would'st  thou,  O  blind  fool  that  art 
so  in  love  with  death? 

107 


William  Sharp 

BIHR 

[Hoarsely.]  Make  me  like  unto  thyself, 
for  I  love  thee ! 

[Deep  silence.  From  afar  on  the  desert 
comes  the  dull  roaring  of  lions  by  the 
water-courses;  from  the  forest,  a  mur- 
murous sound  as  of  baffled  winds  snared 
among  the  thick-branched  ancient  trees.] 

BIHR 

[Sobbing  as  one  wounded  in  flight  by  an 
arrow.']  For  I  love  thee !  I  —  love  —  thee ! 
I  — 

[Deep  silence.  A  shrill  screaming  of  a  bird 
fascinated  by  a  snake  comes  from  the 
forest.  Beyond,  from  the  desert,  a  long, 
desolate  moaning  and  howling,  where  the 
hyenas  prowl.] 

THE   BLACK    MADONNA 

When  ...  did  ...  thy  folly,  .  .  .  this 
madness,  .  .  .  come  upon  thee,  .  .  .  O  fool? 

BIHR 

[Passionately.]  O  Most  Beautiful!  Most 
Beautiful!    Thee  —  Thee  —  will    I    worship! 

THE  BLACK    MADONNA 

Go  hence,  lest  I  slay  thee! 

BIHR 

Slay,  O  Slayer,  for  thou  art  Life  and 
Death !  .  .  .  But  I  go  not  hence.  I  love  thee ! 
I  love  thee!     I  love  thee! 

108 


The  Black  Madonna 

THE   BLACK    MADONNA 

I  am  the  Mother  of  God. 

BIHR 

I  love  thee ! 

THE  BLACK   MADONNA 

God  dwelleth  in  me.     I  am  thy  God. 

BIHR 

I  love  thee ! 

THE  BLACK   MADONNA 

Go  hence,  lest  I  slay  thee! 

BIHR 

Thou  tremblest,  O  Mother  of  God!  Thy 
lips  twitch,  thy  breasts  heave,  O  thou  who 
callest  thyself  God! 

THE  BLACK   MADONNA 

[Raising  her  right  arm  menacingly.']  Go 
hence,  thou  dog,  lest  thou  look  upon  my  face 
no  more. 

'{Then  suddenly,  with  bowed  head  and  shak- 
ing limbs,  Bihr  the  Chief  turns  and 
passes  into  the  forest.  And  as  he  fades 
into  the  darkness,  the  Black  Madonna 
stares  a  long  while  after  him',  and  a  deep 
fear  broods  in  the  twilight  of  her  eyes. 
But  by  the  bodies  of  the  slain  children 
she  passes  at  last,  and  with  a  shudder 
looks  not  upon  their  faces,  but  strews 
the  heavy  white  flowers  more  thickly 
upon  them. 
The  darkness  comes  out  of  the  darkness, 

109 


William  Sharp 

billow  welling  forth  from  spent  billow 
on  the  tides  of  night.  On  the  obscure 
waste  of  the  glade,  nought  moves  save 
the  gaunt  shadow  of  a  hyena  that  crawls 
from  column  to  column.  From  the  black- 
ness beyond  swells  the  long,  thunderous 
howl  of  a  lioness,  echoing  the  hollow 
Masting  roar  of  a  lion  standing,  with 
eyes  of  yellow  flame,  on  the  summit  of 
the  mass  of  smooth  rock  that  faces  the 
carven  Madonna. 

And  when  the  dawn  breaks,  and  long  lines 
of  pearl-gray  wavelets  ripple  in  a  flood 
athwart  the  black-green  sweep  of  the 
forest,  there  is  nought  upon  the  pedestal 
but  red  flowers  that  once  were  white, 
rent  and  scattered  this  way  and  that. 
The  cool  wind  moving  against  the  east 
ruffles  the  opaline  flood  into  a  flying 
foam  of  pink,  wherefrom  mists  and  va- 
pors rise  on  wings  like  rosy  flames;  and 
as  they  rise,  their  crests  shine  as  with 
blazing  gold,  and  they  fare  forth  after 
the  Morn  that  leaps  towards  the  Sun. 

And  the  going  of  the  day  is  from  morning 
silence  unto  noon  silence,  and  from  the 
silence  of  the  afternoon  unto  the  silence 
of  eve.  Once  more,  towards  the  setting 
of  the  sun,  the  multitude  comes  out  of 
the  forest,  from  the  east  and  from  the 
west,  and  from  the  north  and  from  the 
south.  Once  more  the  priests  sing  the 
sacred  hymns:  once  more  the  people  sup- 
plicate as  with  one  shrill,  screaming 
voice,  Have  pity   upon  us!     Have  pity 

1 10 


The  Black  Madonna 

upon  us!  Have  pity  upon  us!  Once 
more  the  victims  are  slain:  five  chiefs  of 
captives  taken  in  war;  and  unto  each 
chief  two  warriors  in  the  glory  of  youth. 
Yet  an  hour  after  the  setting  of  the  sun. 
Lightless  the  silence  and  the  dark  save 
for  the  soft,  yellow  gleam  that  falleth 
from  the  temple,  and  upon  the  man  who, 
crested  with  an  ostrich  plume  bound  by 
a  heavy  circlet  of  gold,  with  a  tiger-skin 
about  his  shoulders,  and  with  a  great 
spear  in  his  hand,  stands  beyond  the 
statue  and  nigh  unto  the  ruins,  where  no 
man  has  ventured  and  lived.] 

BIHR 
[With  loud,  triumphant  voice,']  Come  forth 
my  Bride! 

[Deep  silence,  save  for  the  sighing  of  the 
wind  among  the  upper  branches  of  the 
trees,  and  the  panting  of  the  flying  deer 
beyond   the   glade.] 

BIHR 

[Striking  his  spear  against  the  marble 
steps.}  Come  forth,  Glory  of  my  eyes! 
Come  forth,  Pride  of  my  delight! 

[Deep  silence.  Then  there  is  a  faint  sound, 
and  the  Black  Madonna  stands  beside 
Bihr  the  Chief.  And  the  man  is  wrought 
to  madness  by  her  beauty,  and  lusts  after 
her,  and  possesses  her  with  the  passion 
of  his  eyes.] 

Ill 


William  Sharp 

THE   BLACK    MADONNA 

[Trembling,  and  strangely  troubled.]  What 
would'st  thou? 

BIHR 

Thee! 

THE  BLACK    MADONNA 

[Slowly.]  Young  art  thou,  Bihr,  in  thy 
comeliness  and  strength  to  be  so  in  love  with 
death. 

BIHR 

Who  giveth  life  ?  and  who  death  ?  It  is  not 
thou,  nor  I. 

THE   BLACK    MADONNA 

[Shuddering.]  It  cometh.  None  can  stay 
it. 

BIHR 

Not  thou?    Even  thou  canst  not  stay  it. 

THE   BLACK    MADONNA 

[Whisperingly.]  Nay,  Bihr;  and  this  thing 
thou  knowest  in  thy  heart. 

BIHR 

[Mockingly.']  O  Mother  of  God !  O  Sister 
of  Christ !     O  Bride  of  the  Prophet ! 

THE  BLACK    MADONNA 

[Putting  her  hand  to  her  heart.]  What 
would'st  thou? 

BIHR 

Thee! 

113 


The  Black  Madonna 

THE  BLACK    MADONNA 

I  am  the  Slayer,  the  Terrible,  the  Black 
Madonna. 

BIHR 

And  lo,  thy  God  laugheth  at  thee,  even  as  at 
me  and  mine.  And  lo,  I  am  come  for  thee; 
for  I  have  made  myself  his  Prophet,  and  thou 
art  to  be  my  Bride. 

[As  he  finishes  he  turns  towards  the  great 
Statue  of  the  Black  Madonna  and,  laugh- 
ing, hurls  his  spear  against  its  breast, 
whence  the  weapon  rebounds  with  a  loud 
clang.  Then,  ere  the  woman  knows  what 
he  has  done,  he  leaps  to  her  and  seizes 
her  in  his  grasp,  and  kisses  her  upon  the 
lips,  and  grips  her  with  his  hands  till 
the  veins  sting  in  her  arms.  And  all  the 
sovereignty  of  her  lonely  godhood  passes 
from  her  like  the  dew  before  the  hot 
breath  of  the  sun,  and  her  heart  throbs 
against  his  side  so  that  his  ears  ring  as 
with  the  clang  of  the  gongs  of  battle. 
He  sobs  low,  as  a  man  amidst  baffling 
waves;  and  in  the  hunger  of  his  desire 
she  sinks  as  one  who  drowns. 
Together  they  go  up  the  long,  flat  marble 
steps;  together  they  pass  into  the  dark- 
ness of  the  ruins.  From  the  deeper  dark- 
ness beyond  comes  no  sound,  for  the 
forest  is  strangely  still.  Not  a  beast  of 
prey  comes  nigh  unto  the  slain  victims 
of  the  sacrifice,  not  a  vulture  falls  like 
a  cloud  through  the  night.    Only,  from 


William  Sharp 

afar,  the  dull  roaring  of  the  lions  bil- 
lows heavily  from  the  water-courses  on 
the  desert. 

And  the  wind  that  blows  in  the  night  comes 
with  rain  and  storm,  so  that  when  the 
dawn  breaks  it  is  as  a  sea  of  sullen  waves 
grey  with  sleet.  But  calm  cometh  out  of 
the  blood-red  splendor  of  the  east. 

And  on  this,  the  morning  of  the  fourth  and 
last  day  of  the  Festival  of  the  Black  Ma- 
donna, the  multitude  of  her  worshippers 
come  forth  from  the  forest,  singing  a 
glad  song.  In  front  go  the  warriors,  the 
young  men  brandishing  spears,  and  with 
their  knives  in  their  left  hands  cutting 
the  flesh  upon  their  sides  and  upon  their 
thighs:  the  men  of  the  North  clad  in 
white  garb  and  heavy  burnous,  the  tribes- 
men of  the  South  naked  save  for  their 
loin-girths,  but  plumed  as  for  war. 

But  as  the  priests  defile  beyond  them  upon 
the  glade,  a  strange,  new  song  goes  up 
from  the  shaven  lips;  and  the  people 
tremble,  for  they  know  that  some  dire 
thing  has  happened.] 

THE   PRIESTS 

[Chanting.]  Lo,  when  the  law  of  the 
Queen  is  fulfilled,  she  passeth  from  her  people 
awhile.  For  the  Mother  of  God  loveth  the 
world,  and  would  go  in  sacrifice.  So  loveth 
us  the  Mother  of  God  that  she  passeth  in  sac- 
rifice. Behold,  she  perisheth,  who  dieth  not! 
Behold,  she  dieth,  who  is  immortal! 

114 


The  Black  Madonna 

[Whereupon  a  great  awe  comes  on  the  mul- 
titude, as  they  behold  smoke,  whirling  and 
darkly  fulgurant,  issuing  from  the  mouth 
and  nostrils  of  the  Black  Madonna.  But 
this  awe  passes  into  horror,  and  horror 
into  wild  fear,  when  great  tongues  of 
flame  shoot  forth  amidst  the  wreaths  of 
smoke,  and  when  from  forth  of  the  Black 
Madonna  come  strange  and  horrible  cries, 
as  though  a  mortal  woman  were  perishing 
by  the  torture  of  fire. 

With  shrieks  the  women  turn  and  fly:  hurl- 
ing their  spears  from  them,  the  men  dash 
wildly  to  the  forest,  heedless  whither 
they  flee. 

But  those  that  leap  to  the  westward,  where 
the  great  white  rock  facing  the  Black  Ma- 
donna stands  solitary,  see  for  a  moment, 
in  the  glare  of  sunrise,  a  swarthy,  naked 
figure,  with  a  tiger-skin  about  the  shoul- 
ders, crucified  against  the  smooth  white 
slope.  Down  from  the  outspread  hands 
of  Bihr  the  Chief  trickle  two  long  waver- 
ing streamlets  of  blood :  two  long  stream- 
lets of  blood  drip,  drip  down  the  white, 
glaring  face  of  the  rock  from  the  pierced 
feet.] 


"5 


The  Last  Quest 


Death  hath  not  yet  come  unto  the  man  who 
knoweth  not  that  he  is  dead. 

Johannes  Arbiter:  Myst. 


THE  LAST  QUEST 

[As  in  a  vision  ...  the  furious  charge 
through  the  smoke  and  across  the  corpse- 
strewn  battlefield:  the  neighing  and  sob- 
bing of  horses ;  the  hoarse  cries,  the  sud- 
den screams  of  men :  the  clang  and  whis- 
tle of  swords:  the  shrill  spurting  of  a 
hail  of  bullets:  the  bursting  crash  and 
roar  of  artillery:  a  wild  rush,  a  wild  on- 
slaught, and  — Victory!   .  .  .  and  .  .  .] 

And  as  I  clomb  the  barren  and  difficult 
steep,  I  yearned  for  a  fellow-creature,  for 
but  the  hollow  echo  of  a  distant  voice,  even 
more  than  for  escape  from  the  twilit  solitudes 
of  this  hill  whereup  I  toiled,  forgetful  whence 
I  came  and  knowing  not  whither  I  went. 
And  it  seemed  to  me  as  though  years  upon 
years  went  over  me  in  my  long,  ceaseless 
effort ;  but  when,  with  a  triumph  that  was  yet 
no  triumph,  at  last  I  gained  the  crest,  I  still 
heard  in  my  ears  the  fanfare  of  the  bugles, 
the  clash  of  swords,  the  mad  rush  and  fury 
and  turmoil  of  the  charge,  while  my  lips 
quivered  still  with  the  sudden  scream  of 
Victory. 

And  when  I  stood  upon  the  summit,  I  saw 
that  I  was  in  a  strange  land.     Behind  me  lay 

119 


William  Sharp 

a  vast  plain,  margined  afar  off  in  the  direction 
by  which  it  seemed  to  me  I  had  come,  by 
obscure,  impenetrable  forests.  Immeasurably 
upon  this  plain  was  ruin  of  ungarnered  har- 
vest. Leagues  upon  leagues  to  the  east  and 
west  without  end,  and  everywhere  the  grain 
ungathered ;  and  nought  astir  save  a  thin  dust 
of  chaff,  idly  blown  hither  and  thither  by  a 
wind  that  was  yet  too  light  to  move  the  dark 
poppies  that  lay  in  the  hollows, —  too  faint  to 
bend  an  ear  of  that  unlifted  grain.  Veiled 
moonlight  shone  upon  the  waste,  so  that  even 
through  the  gloom  I  could  see  that  nought 
moved,  nought  stirred :  not  even  an  owl  swept 
with  stealthy  wing  above  the  forlorn  lands, 
not  even  a  bat  circled  through  the  dusk,  not 
even  a  cloud  trailed  a  deeper  shadow  from 
solitude  to  solitude.  But  as  I  looked  closer 
and  wonderingly,  and  now  with  a  great  weari- 
ness of  longing,  I  saw  that  every  here  and 
there  the  sheaves  had  been  brought  together 
as  though  the  reapers  had  suddenly  ceased 
from  their  labour  and  had  gone  to  make  ready 
for  the  harvesting.  Yet,  for  the  most  part, 
the  sheaves  were  but  loosely  gathered,  and  all 
untied,  and  with  the  ground  near  strewn  with 
the  rich  grain  that  had,  as  it  were,  been 
abruptly  dropped.  And  everywhere,  far  and 
wide,  were  single  sheaves  or  small  gatherings, 

1 20 


The  Last  Quest 

as  though  the  harvesters  had  been  weary  or 
heedless;  and  often  sheaves  that  seemed  as 
though  they  had  been  wittingly  defiled  or  de- 
stroyed. But  now  all  the  ungarnered  harvest 
lay  silently  there  in  the  twilight;  and  no  man 
came  unto  that  which  was  ready  for  the  gath- 
ering, and  no  man  passed  by  that  which  had 
been  idly  thrown  aside  or  ruined  in  wanton- 
ness. And  amidst  it  all,  this  vast  harvest 
which  stretched  beyond  sight  to  the  uttermost 
ends  of  the  earth,  there  was  nothing  further 
visible  but  the  dark-red  poppies  of  oblivion. 
Of  all  this  immeasurable  toil,  of  all  this  ma- 
jesty of  desolation,  there  was  nought  save  a 
thin,  vanishing  dust  of  chaff,  faint  as  a  per- 
ishing smoke  over  woodlands  where  a  fire 
has  been,  but  is  no  more. 

Then  as  one  rousing  from  sleep  into  day- 
light, I  turned  and  looked  beyond  me.  Be- 
hold, here  too  was  a  vast  plain  that  stretched 
beyond  the  scan  of  mortal  eyes.  The  sun- 
light lay  upon  it,  and  it  was  glorious  to  look 
upon.  A  sweet  wind  came  out  of  the  blue 
hollows  of  the  sky,  where  white  clouds  voy- 
aged bearing  soft  rains  and  cool  shadows :  and 
there  was  so  wild  and  glad  a  music  of  birds 
over  the  illimitable  savannas  of  golden  grain, 
and  of  young  corn  green  as  the  heart  of  a 
shallow  sea,  that  I  felt  as  though  all  the  joy 

121 


William  Sharp 

of  my  youth  was  upon  me,  and  my  heart 
swelled,  and  the  blood  stung  in  my  veins. 
But  ere  long  I  looked  with  amazement,  for 
in  all  that  unf rontiered  land  beyond  me  I  saw 
neither  man  nor  woman.  Yet  evermore, 
from  the  east  to  the  west,  swept  a  gigantic 
shadow  like  unto  a  scythe:  and  where  the 
shadow  swept,  the  grain  fell.  And  when  I 
looked  again  I  beheld  a  mighty  Shape,  clothed 
in  the  dusk  of  shadow  as  with  a  veil,  and  clad 
with  dropping  decays  as  with  a  tattered  robe 
rent  by  the  wind.  Ever  and  forever  the 
Reaper  strode,  with  blind,  oblivious  eyes,  with 
vast  scythe  furrowing  the  sunlit  grain :  and  it 
seemed  to  me,  while  I  watched,  as  though  the 
minutes  passed  into  hours,  and  the  hours  into 
days,  and  the  days  into  years,  and  the  years 
into  the  timeless  wastes  of  eternity.  Looking 
suddenly  back  upon  the  twilit  land  which  first 
I  had  brooded  upon,  I  saw  that  its  margins 
were  as  the  moving  tides  of  ocean,  and  that 
the  Reaper  reaped  where  the  grain  grew  by 
the  fallen  grain.  And  there  was  no  rest,  no 
end  to  the  long  sweep  of  the  shadowy  scythe. 
Ever,  forever,  the  scythe  swept:  ever,  for- 
ever, the  grain  fell.  The  sun  shone,  the  birds 
sang,  the  world  smiled;  and,  by  the  margins 
of  the  Hollow  Land,  where  the  grain  rose  the 
grain  fell. 

122 


The  Last  Quest 

Then  a  terror  that  was  of  life  overmastered 
the  terror  that  was  of  death,  and  I  strained 
my  eyes  so  that  I  might  see  some  living  thing 
of  my  own  kind.  But  only  the  rays  of  the 
sun  penetrated  the  womb  of  the  earth,  and 
only  the  endless  concourse  of  the  grain  was 
delivered  of  the  unwearying  mother.  It 
seemed  to  me,  then,  as  though  the  green  corn 
and  the  golden  ears  were  but  as  the  multitude 
of  lives  that  come  forth  at  the  rising  of  the 
sun,  and  are  no  more  at  the  setting.  And  as 
I  looked  with  awe  and  terror  upon  the  Reaper, 
who  reaped  forever  and  ever  where  the  grain 
rose  and  the  grain  fell,  I  turned  and  stared 
beyond  the  westering  sun.  And  lo,  I  beheld 
yet  Another.  A  glory  of  golden  light  he 
seemed,  clad  with  ever  evanishing  rainbows, 
and  crowned  with  the  auroral  flames  of  sum- 
mer dawns. 

Vast  was  he  as  the  Reaper ;  but  as  he  fared 
beyond  the  pathway  of  the  sun,  he  was  as  the 
glory  and  joy  of  eternal  youth.  He,  too, 
swayed  an  arm,  even  as  the  mighty  scythe- 
sweep  of  the  Reaper,  an  arm  of  glowing  light : 
and  therewith  I  saw  that  he  sowed  a  living 
seed  forever  and  ever.  As  I  watched  the 
Sower  in  the  blinding  splendour  of  the  sun- 
light, it  seemed  to  me  that  he  moved  onward 
as  he  sowed;  and  it  was  with  me  as  though 

123 


William  Sharp 

the  minutes  were  like  unto  hours,  and  the 
hours  like  unto  days,  and  the  days  unto  years, 
and  the  years  unto  the  immeasurable  wastes 
of  eternity. 

Then,  with  a  great  cry,  I  ran  down  the 
slopes  of  the  steep  whereon  I  was;  for  my 
heart  was  fain  to  follow  the  beautiful  Sower, 
and  my  soul  full  of  dread  of  the  Reaper  that 
reaped  forever.  But  when  I  came  unto  the 
base  of  the  hill,  and  to  the  end  of  the  gloomy 
pass  that  issued  thence,  I  went  no  further. 
For  over  against  me  rose  a  vast  wall  of  black 
basalt,  and  upon  it,  in  letters  of  white  flame, 
were  the  words  of  my  agony.  And  when  I 
read  TOO  SOON,  I  turned  me  in  my  despair, 
and  with  bitterness  of  grief  clomb  again  the 
perilous  steep. 

When  once  more  I  had  gained  the  summit, 
I  had  no  heart  to  look  where  the  glory  of  the 
sun  fell  about  the  Sower,  sowing  his  living 
seed  forever  and  ever.  But  when  I  looked 
again  upon  the  Reaper  —  with  mighty  scythe 
laying  low  without  end,  without  rest,  where 
the  grain  rose  and  the  grain  fell  —  I  cried 
aloud  in  my  extremity  of  dread. 

Thereafter,  it  seemed  to  me  that  in  the 
Hollow  Land  behind  me  was  peace.  So 
passed  I  down  the  hill,  and  through  the  twilit 
waste  of  all  that  ungarnered  harvest.    And 

124 


The  Last  Quest 

there  was  no  sound  there,  and  nought  stirred, 
save  the  slow,  thin  fall  of  the  dust  among  the 
hollows  forever  upon  the  dark-red  poppies  of 
oblivion. 

And  I  know  not  how  long  I  fared,  or 
whither;  but  at  last,  weary  —  weary  unto 
death  of  that  harvest  that  should  never  be 
gathered  —  I  came  nigh  unto  the  obscure 
forest  I  had  seen  from  the  hill-summit  from 
afar.  And  I  was  glad,  for  I  was  weary  of 
the  Hollow  Land. 

But  when  I  would  enter  the  wood,  I  saw 
that  the  growths  were  intricately  drawn 
against  yet  another  wall  of  black  basalt.  And 
as  I  stood,  pondering,  I  beheld  two  mighty 
portals,  and  betwixt  them  a  huge  mass  of 
marble  like  unto  the  tomb.  And  in  great  let- 
ters carven  thereon  were  the  words:  TOO 
LATE. 


125 


The  Fallen  God 


Christian 
.  .  .  nay,  but  doth  not  God  owe  that  which 
He  hath  promised? 
Pagan 
He  payeth  in  divers  ways. 

Christian 
Is  not  His  glory  my  glory,  for  lo  He  dwelleth 
in  me  and  I  in  Him? 
Pagan 
Even  so.     Thus  hath  it  ever  been,  O  wor- 
shipper of  thine  own  soul! 

The  Idolater. 


THE  FALLEN  GOD 

[A  vast  hollow  among  barren  hills,  whereon 
no  living  thing  moves  or  has  being,  and 
where  no  flower  blooms,  no  grass  or  any 
green  thing  grows  ever.  Above  the  sheer 
slopes  of  the  hills  reaches  the  immense 
empty  void  of  the  sky,  wherein  there  is 
no  sun  and  no  moon,  wherein  no  stars 
mark  a  change  that  never  comes,  no 
clouds  wander  before  the  shepherd-wind 
that  blows  never. 

At  the  far  rise  of  the  hollow  —  so  vast  that 
echoes  from  the  gorge  issuing  at  the 
hither  end  wander  idly  into  silence  ere 
their  whispers  faint  midway  —  is  a  gigan- 
tic fallen  altar,  ancient  beyond  the  ken  of 
man,  and  prostrate  as  it  lay  even  in  dim 
antiquity.  Behind  it  stretches  to  the  right 
and  to  the  left,  and  reaches  upward  into 
the  lifeless  sky,  a  sheer  smooth  wall  of 
basalt,  polished  as  ice  and  black  as  the 
grave.  And  upon  this  ruined,  ancient 
altar,  as  upon  a  throne,  sits  the  Prophet: 
in  his  eyes  a  woe  more  terrible  than  the 
desolation  of  the  sky  overhead  —  a  terror 
of  loneliness  more  awful  than  that  of  the 
barren  hills. 

All  the  valley  —  from  the  base  of  the  gigantic 

fallen  altar  even  unto  the  hithermost  end, 

whereby  all  may  come  but  none  may  go  — 

is  filled  with  an  innumerable  throng,  so 

129 


William  Sharp 

dense  that  no  man  might  pass  through 
these  close  ranks.  In  all  the  valley  and 
upon  all  the  hills  nothing  stirs,  nothing 
moves. 
In  the  forefront  of  this  silent  concourse 
stand  the  dead  kings;  and  behind  them, 
rows  upon  rows,  the  high  priests  of  the 
people.  Even  as  though  in  one  motion- 
less stare,  all  look  upon  the  Prophet,  the 
herald  of  their  eternal  joy.  And  in  a  low, 
hollow  voice,  that  yet  is  heard  of  all,  as 
though  a  rumour  of  earthquake  and  aw- 
ful thunder  were  echoing  from  the  deso- 
late void,  the  Prophet  speaks:] 

THE   PROPHET 

What  would  ye? 

[As  a  sigh  that  goes  before  the  autumnal 
wind,  the  dead  kings  speak:  and  the  woe 
in  the  face  of  the  Prophet  passes  under- 
standing.] 

THE  KINGS 

We  are  even  as  the  dust  upon  the  highway. 
O  Prophet,  where  is  our  God?  We  would 
look  upon  him  face  to  face. 

[Looking  upon  them,  with  eyes  wherein  the 
last  hope  flickers  unto  death,  the  Prophet 
answers :] 

THE   PROPHET 

There  is  no  God. 

[Terrible  is  the  wail  from  the  people,  from 
one  and  from  all  throughout  that  dense 
throng;  but  silence  comes  upon  them  as 

130 


The  Fallen  God 

a  wave,  as  the  priests  stretch  forth  their 
arms  and  supplicate:] 

THE   PRIESTS 

Far  have  we  fared,  and  bitter  has  been  the 
way,  O  Prophet  of  God !  Lead  us  now  to  the 
God  whom  we  worship,  lest  we  perish  ere  he 
gather  us  to  his  fold. 

THE   PROPHET 

What  would  ye,  O  blind  leaders  of  the 
blind? 

THE   PRIESTS 

Our  God!    Our  God! 

THE   PROPHET 

There  is  no  God. 

[Terrible  is  the  wail  from  the  people,  from 
one  and  all  throughout  the  dense  con- 
course; but,  as  the  priests  stand  move- 
less, like  dumb  things  stricken  unto  the 
death,  the  multitude  cries  as  with  one 
voice,  with  arms  stretched  forth  even  as 
one  arm:] 

THE  PEOPLE 

We  have  endured  to  the  end!  We  are 
weary ;  we  are  weary :  O  God ! 

THE   PROPHET 

What  would  ye  ? 

THE  PEOPLE 

Our  God !    Our  God ! 

THE   PROPHET 

There  is  no  God! 

131 


William  Sharp 

[An  awful   whisper  goes  over  the  massed 
multitude:] 

THE  PEOPLE 

.  Have  we  suffered,  endured,  agonized,  pas- 
sioned, hoped  against  hope,  and  all  in  vain? 

[And  till  the   Prophet  speaks,   a  yet  more 

awful  whisper  passes  like  a  shudder  over 

the  multitude:] 

THE   PROPHET 

There  is  no  God! 

[Then  with  one  wild,  despairing  cry,  all  sup- 
plicate as  one  man:] 

THE  PEOPLE 

Have  we  wrought  in  vain? 

THE  PROPHET 

Yea,  so. 

THE   PEOPLE 

And  there  is  no  God? 

THE  PROPHET 

There  is  no  God. 

[As  a  howl  of  a  wild  beast  is  the  voice  of 
the  multitude:] 

THE   PEOPLE 

Liar,  liar!    O  false  Prophet,  was  it  ever 
so?    Did  we  worship  nought? 

[Then,  with  a  long  sigh,   as   if  death  had 
come  indeed,  the   Prophet  answers:] 

THE  PROPHET 

Nay,  your  God  was. 
132 


The  Fallen  God 

THE   PEOPLE 

Where   is   he?    Let   us   come   unto   him! 
Our  God!    Our  God! 

THE   PROPHET 

Behold,  he  is  here. 

THE  PEOPLE 

Where?    Where? 

[And  lo,  prostrate  at  the  feet  of  the  dead 
Prophet,  whose  eyes  become  as  stone,  and 
whose  body  as  the  unhewn  marble  in  the 
heart  of  the  hills,  is  the  fallen  God. 

Then,  as  the  last  wave  of  a  perishing  sea,  all 
the  multitude  moves  onward.  One  by 
one  each  of  that  mighty  company  passes 
before  the  fallen  altar  and  looks  upon  the 
dead  God.  And  to  each  —  kings  and 
priests,  elders  and  youths,  women  and 
maidens,  the  frail  and  little  children  — 
it  seems  as  though  his  own  self  lies  there, 
staring  upward  out  of  his  own  eyes. 

But,  at  the  last,  none  is  left  of  all  these 
countless  thousands.  Each  passes,  and 
fades  as  a  mist  against  the  black  wall 
beyond. 

And  a  great  darkness  comes  down,  though 
decrescent  along  the  forefront  is  a  dying 
orb,  the  faint,  vanishing  gleam  whereof 
falls  upon  the  stony  wilderness,  void  as 
the  void  sky.  No  voice  speaks ;  no  breath 
moves  —  save  only  at  the  base  of  the 
fallen  altar  a  perishing  eddy  of  wind  that 
stirs  a  handful  of  dust.] 

133 


The  Coming  of  The  Prince 


Amour!     O  vie!     O  reve  des  reves. 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  PRINCE 

[A  great  forest,  at  midwinter,  in  the  North 
of  France.  The  snow  lies  heavy  on  the 
boughs  of  the  oaks  and  beeches,  and  upon 
the  pendulous  branches  of  the  larches  and 
firs.  The  afternoon  sky  is  of  a  pale  tur- 
quoise blue,  faintly  dulled  toward  the 
north  into  a  vaporous  grey. 

In  the  depth  of  the  wood,  a  charcoal-burner 
is  stooping  over  a  pile  of  fagots  which  he 
is  binding.  Suddenly  he  raises  his  head 
and  listens  intently.  Far  off,  there  is  a 
faint  strain  of  music.  It  mounts  and 
wavers  and  passes  away,  as  a  feather 
blown  from  a  bird  in  its  flight  sways  this 
way  and  that  and  then  drifts  out  of  sight. 
The  charcoal-burner  resumes  his  labour; 
but,  later,  he  once  more  suddenly  raises 
his  head  and  sniffs  the  chill  woodland 
air.] 
THE   CHARCOAL-BURNER 

It  is  strange.  Midwinter  .  .  .  and  there  is 
a  smell  as  of  violets  .  .  .  faint  .  .  .  like  those 
white  violets  in  summer  in  the  garden  of  the 
cure  ...  or  (still  sniffing  the  air  perplexedly) 
like  those  in  the  woods  of  Belamor.  .  .  . 
Well,  well,  I  know  not.  I  have  seen  and 
heard  many  things.  .  .  .  Ay,  and  so  the  Sieur 
de  Fontnoir  is  to  have  a  great  prince  for  his 
guest,  they  say.     I  would  he  might  pass  this 

137 


William  Sharp 

way,  for  I  am  poor  —  ah,  so  poor,  and  it  is 
bitter  cold  —  and  perhaps  .  .  .  [again  he 
listens  intently,  as  a  faint  sound  of  music 
■floats  through  the  air  and  lingeringly  dies'] 
.  .  .  It  is  strange! 

[He  gathers  a  few  stray  fagots,  and  then, 
heavily  and  wearily,  follows  a  path  that 
leads  through  the  forest.  A  thin  snow  be- 
gins to  fall:  large  fringed  feathers  swirl 
softly  this  way  and  that,  dusking  the  up- 
per air,  and  drawing  a  veil  of  fugitive 
whiteness  over  the  tangled  undergrowth. 
Silently,  as  the  visionary  thoughts  that 
drift  through  dreams,  the  snowflakes  fall, 
till  the  upper  boughs  of  the  firs  are  as 
vast  white  plumes,  and  a  dense  carpet  is 
so  thickly  woven  over  the  glades  that  the 
hare  does  not  leap  from  under  the  frozen 
bracken,  and  under  the  arched  roots  of 
the  old  oak  the  yellow  eyes  of  the  fox 
blink  drowsily. 
At  the  northern  march  of  the  forest  there 
is  a  great  avenue  that  leads  to  the  Chateau 
of  Fontnoir;  and  at  the  far  end  of  this, 
and  close  to  the  manor,  Gaspard  the 
Huntsman  walks,  stamping  as  he  goes, 
so  as  to  shake  the  snow  from  him.  As 
he  passes  the  many-gabled  west  wing  of 
Fontnoir,  he  is  hailed  from  an  open  win- 
dow by  Raoul,  an  old  servitor.] 

RAOUL 
Gaspard!     Gaspard!     have    you    seen    or 
heard  aught  of  the  Prince? 

138 


The  Coming  of  the  Prince, 

GASPARD 

What  Prince? 

RAOUL 

Why,  the  Prince  whom  both  our  Lord  and 
the  Lady  Alaine  have  been  expecting.  I  know 
no  more.  He  may  come  unannounced  and 
when  unexpected,  so  says  Father  Fabien. 

GASPARD 

I  have  been  in  the  forest  all  day.  I  met 
no  one. 

RAOUL 

You  saw  no  one!    You  heard  nothing? 

GASPARD 

I  saw  no  one  except  old  Pierre  the  char- 
coal-burner. I  heard  nothing  unusual  —  ex- 
cept —  except  — 

RAOUL 

Except  what? 

GASPARD 

Within  the  last  hour  I  heard  twice  a  faint 
sound  as  of  music. 

RAOUL 

Music? 

GASPARD 

Yes ;  I  think  Sylvain,  from  St.  Luc  du  Lys, 
must  be  wandering  hither  again.  I  hope  so: 
that  lute  of  his  has  magic  in  it,  and  he  has  a 
voice  as  sweet  as  the  spring  wind. 

139 


«# 


William  Sharp 

RAOUL 

I  care  not  for  your  lute-players  and  singers. 

You  are  as  bad  as  Sylvain,  Gaspard.  ...  Is 

it  going  to  be  a  snowstorm? 
gaspard 
No.     This  fall  will  soon  cease.     The  night 

will  be  clear. 

[Raoul  closes  the  window,  and  Gaspard 
passes  on  and  disappears  into  the  east 
wing.  A  great  silence  prevails.  The 
snowflakes  fall  softly,  but  grow  thinner 
and  more  thin,  and  at  last  only  a  few 
wandering  feathers  drift  hither  and 
thither. 
At  an  oriel  window  stand  Marcel  and 
Alaine.  The  room  beyond  is  in  deep 
shadow.  To  the  left,  a  door  opens  on  a 
corridor :  to  the  right  another,  leading  to 
a  stone  staircase  that  descends  abruptly. 
The  first  is  closed;  the  second  is  ajar. 
The  waning  afternoon  light  falls  upon 
Alaine's  face  as  the  dim  glow  of  the 
crescent  moon  on  water  lilies.  She  is 
very  beautiful,  but  pale  as  death.  Mar- 
cel is  clad  as  though  for  a  journey. 
He,  too,  is  pale;  but  in  his  dark  eyes 
there  is  a  fierce  flame  of  life.] 

ALAINE 

If  my   father  knew  that  you  were  here, 
Marcel  — 

MARCEL 

Let  him  know.     I  care  not. 
140 


The  Coming  of  the  Prince 

ALAINE 

He  hates  you  and  your  house. 

MARCEL 

He  is  an  old  man,  who  has  lived  with 
Shadows. 

ALAINE 

Father  Fabien  — 

MARCEL 

Alaine,  what  flowers  have  you  there?  It 
is  midwinter  —  and  yet  I  seem  to  smell  the 
fragrance  of  violets. 

ALAINE 

There  will  be  no  violets  for  months  yet. 
There  are  no  flowers  here. 

MARCEL 

Yes  .  .  .  violets;  .  .  .  those  faint,  white 
violets  you  love  so  well. 

[The  last  rays  of  the  sun  stream  through 
the  upper  boughs  of  the  forest,  and  all 
the  whiteness  is  as  autumnal  moonlight 
The  gleam  illumes  the  face  of  Alaine, 
which  is  transformed  to  a  beauty  as  of 
a  summer  sea.  She  laughs  low,  and  in 
a  sweet,  hushed  voice  sings:] 

White  dreams, 
White  thoughts, 
White  hopes! 
Shy  violets. 
White  violets. 

141 


William  Sharp 

In  woodland  ways,  by  the  brook-side, 
on  the  hill-slopes  I 

Strange  joy, 
New  thrills, 
Vague  fears: 
Violets, 
White  violets, 

White  kisses  from  the  lips  of  Spring, 
white  dewey  tears. 

White  hands, 

O  lead  me  where 
The  white  Spring  strays 

'Mid  violets, 

White  violets, 

On  the  hill-slopes,  by  the  brook-side, 
in  woodland  ways. 
[A  silence.    The  last  glow  of  the  sun  passes. 

A  yellow   light  illumines  the  wood.] 

MARCEL 
Why  do  you  sing  that  song? 

ALAINE 

[Dreamily.]     Because  they  are  the  flowers, 
the  best-beloved  flowers  of  the  Prince.  .  .  . 

[softly] 
In  woodland  ways,  by  the  brook-side,  on  the 

hill-slopes! 

142 


i 

The  Coming  of  the  Prince 

MARCEL 

Alaine ! 

ALAINE 

Hush!  Some  one  comes.  If  it  should  be 
my  father  —  or  —  or  —  Father  Fabien! 

MARCEL 

It  cannot  be  your  father:  he  is  too  ill  to 
move.     It  is  Raoul:  I  know  his  heavy  step. 

[Raoul  knocks  and  opens  the  door.  He 
glances,  startled  for  a  moment,  at  Mar- 
cel; then  bows.  Then,  looking  towards 
Alaine:] 

RAOUL 

Did  you  wish  me? 

ALAINE 

No.     Why  do  you  come? 

RAOUL 

I  heard  a  sound  as  of  that  little  silver  chime 
of  bells  that  Sylvain  the  minstrel  brought  you 
last  Noel.     It  was  in  the  corridor. 

ALAINE 

Impossible.    You  are  dreaming,  Raoul. 

RAOUL 

[To  Marcel.]  Monseigneur  de  St.  Michel, 
you  face  the  great  doorway  of  Fontnoir.  Did 
you  see  any  one  approach?  Have  you  stood 
here  long? 

MARCEL 

No  one  has  approached  since  the  sun 
dipped  among  the  firs. 

143 


William  Sharp 

RAOUL 

It  is  strange.  A  loud  peal  at  the  door  hap- 
pened just  as  I  was  crossing  the  west  gallery. 
I  answered  the  summons  at  once;  but,  see 
you,  my  Lord  Marcel,  when  I  went  to  the 
door  it  was  open,  and  no  one  was  there. 

MARCEL 

Some  one  must  have  opened  it. 

RAOUL 

No  one  could  have  done  so  unseen  by  me. 
It  was  not  open  before  the  summons. 

MARCEL 

Some  one  must  have  rung,  and  then 
abruptly  gone  elsewhere. 

RAOUL 

I  looked  out  upon  the  court.  There  was 
not  the  faintest  impress  of  a  footstep  upon  the 
white  sheet  of  the  snow. 

MARCEL 

Well,  it  has  been  an  illusion,  Raoul. 

[He  crosses  to  the  old  servitor,  whispers 
some  directions  in  his  ear,  and  then,  as 
Raoul  leaves  the  room,  closes  the  door 
behind  him.  The  yellow  light  over  the 
snow-clad  woods  grows  more  wan.  Be- 
yond are  broad  spaces  of  amber,  and 
then  a  vast  receding  vault  of  dusky  grey, 
wherein  three  pale  stars  gleam  icily:  on 
the  snow  in  the  foreground  rests  a  fur- 
tive green  light.] 

144 


The  Coming  of  the  Prince 

ALAINE 

[Dreamily.]     Ah,  the  sweet  violets. 

MARCEL 

You,  too,  smell  the  violets? 

ALAINE 

[Still  as  in  a  dream.]  And,  said  Sylvain 
the  poet,  when  the  Prince  had  made  a  wreath 
of  white  violets,  gathered  in  the  sunshine,  but 
each  with  the  moonshine  dew  still  cool  within 
it,  he  crowned  himself  therewith,  and  — 

MARCEL 

Who  is  this  Prince  who  is  coming?  Why 
is  he  likely  to  come  alone  and  disguised? 

ALAINE 

I  know  not. 

MARCEL 

Alaine,  oh,  my  darling!  I  love  you! 
Alaine!  Alaine! 

ALAINE 

Marcel ! 

[Marcel  sinks  on  his  knees  by  her  side,  and 
wildly  kisses  her  hand.] 

MARCEL 
Have  pity  upon  me,  have  pity,  Alaine! 

ALAINE 

Rise,  Marcel. 

MARCEL 

Alaine !    Alaine ! 

145 


I 


William  Sharp 

ALAINE 

Rise,  heart  of  my  heart,  my  darling,  my 
darling ! 

MARCEL 

[Springing  to  his  feet,  and  holding  her  at 
arm's  length.]  O  my  beautiful  Alaine  —  My 
joy  —  my  dream!  Do  you  indeed  love  me 
even  as  I  love  you?  No  —  no  —  that  cannot 
be,  for  I  worship  you!  O  my  darling,  my 
darling ! 

ALAINE 

I  have  loved  you  always,  Marcel.  But  you 
know  my  father's  vow  —  my  father's  hatred: 
he  would  kill  you  rather  than  — 

MARCEL 

And  now  —  and  now? 

ALAINE 

I  love  you,  and  you  only,  Marcel.  Do 
with  me  as  you  will.  I  am  a  lost  wave  with- 
out you  —  a  lost  wave  on  a  great  sea,  dark 
and  shoreless. 

MARCEL 

Then  farewell  all  this  long,  troubled  dream ! 

ALAINE 

Farewell  this  dream  that  is  dreamt  —  this 
weary  dream! 

MARCEL 

And  you  will  come. 

146 


The  Coming  of  the  Prince 

ALAINE 

I  come. 

[He  takes  her  in  his  arms  and  kisses  her 
passionately.  Then,  silent  and  sound- 
lessly, they  pass  hand  in  hand  from  the 
room  by  the  eastward  door,  and  descend 
the  narrow  stairway. 

And  as  they  go,  the  room  is  full,  as  it  were, 
with  the  odour  of  white  violets.  And  ere 
they  have  reached  the  end  of  the  wind- 
ing stairway,  they  stop  a  moment,  in- 
tently listening  to  a  faint,  sweet  music 
as  of  lutes,  that  seems  to  come  from  the 
room  they  have  left.] 
ALAINE 

Ah,  the  sweet  music ! 

MARCEL 

I  have  heard  it  in  my  dreams. 

ALAINE 

.  .  And  I. 

MARCEL 

It  was  ever  with  thee,  Alaine! 

ALAINE 

.  .  And  thee! 

[They  pass  along  the  low  stone  corridor, 
and  out  behind  the  east  wing,  and  into 
the  court  where  Marcel's  sleigh  awaits 
them.  As  they  sweep  across  the  snow 
and  into  the  forest,  the  green  light  passes 
into  yellow,  and  the  yellow  deepens  into 
orange.  And,  a  little  later,  sitting  by 
the  fire  in  his  hut,  the  charcoal-burner 

147 


William  Sharp 

lifts  his  head  and  smiles  slowly;  for  he 
thinks  he  hears  Sylvain  the  minstrel,  on 
his  way  to  the  Chateau  to  make  music 
for  the  Prince.] 


I48 


The  Passing  of  Lilith 


"  Connais-tu  la  Puissance  tenebreuse  qui 
trame  nos  destinies?  .  .  .  Des  vies  ante- 
rieures  sont  innombrablement  presentes  en 
moi;  et  je  suis  oppresse  de  mes  pensees  fu- 
tures: je  sais  I'eternite.  Ne  suis-je  V irrevo- 
cable?" 


THE  PASSING  OF  LILITH 

[The  primal  Eden,  where  the  great  rivers 
from  the  East  and  the  West  converge; 
where  the  winds  bear  abroad  the  rumour 
of  the  music  of  the  young  world,  strange 
and  passing  sweet;  where  there  is 
neither  strife  nor  fear;  where  Lilith,  the 
beautiful,  soulless  loveliness,  reigneth 
supreme. 
And  in  the  serene  day  come  ever  and  again 
the  fairest  of  the  Sons  of  God  and  do 
homage  to  her;  but  only  to  Uluel  doth 
she  yield  herself.  And  in  the  serene 
night  cometh  the  Spirit  of  this  World, 
ofttimes  in  the  guise  of  a  beautiful 
Snake,  and  unto  him  Lilith  is  as  flame 
to  flame.] 
THE  VOICE   OF  THE  SPIRIT  OF  THIS   WORLD 

From  afar  I  sigh  for  thee,  O  Beauty  of 
the  World! 

LILITH 

[Slowly  moving  through  the  Garden  of 
Eden,  where  the  dusk  falleth.]  I  would  be 
alone  this  night. 

THE  VOICE 

[As  the  passing  of  the  wind.~\  Thy  thought 
is  my  thought,  and  thy  will  is  my  will. 

[Through  the  dim  groves  and  shadowy  ave- 
nues of  Paradise  Lilith  goeth  slowly,  as 

151 


William  Sharp 

in  a  dream.  She  seeth  not,  she  heedeth 
not  the  beautiful  denizens  of  Eden:  the 
white  doe  that  moveth  beside  her  awhile, 
like  moonlight ;  the  yellow  panther,  whose 
eyes  are  as  emerald  flames  in  the  dusk; 
the  green-gold  cobra,  languidly  undulat- 
ing from  bough  to  bough;  the  filmy,  oft- 
evanishing  creatures  of  the  middle  air, 
strange  and  lovely  shapes,  opal-eyed, 
faintly  rainbow-hued ;  and  wandering 
Spirits,  passing  fair,  flowers  of  the  un- 
born fruit  of  the  Human  Soul. 

And  after  awhile  she  passeth,  still  as  in  a 
dream,  by  the  margins  of  the  great,  un- 
sailed  waste  of  waters  that  stretcheth 
westward  from  Paradise,  vaguely  heark- 
ening, as  she  goeth,  the  prophetic  mur- 
murs of  the  deep. 

But  the  sound  of  the  waters  persuadeth  her 
to  a  subtle  sorrow,  and  she  wandereth 
inland  till  she  cometh  to  the  great  cen- 
tral fountain  which  riseth  from  the  womb 
of  the  earth.  And  looking  into  the  heart 
of  it,  Lilith  is  strangely  troubled.] 

LILITH 

[Slowly,  and  still  as  in  a  dream.']  Lo,  in 
the  falling  spray  it  seemeth  that  something 
shadowy  like  unto  myself  taketh  form.  Be- 
hold, now  it  towereth  triumphantly.  .  .  . 
Now  it  is  a  menacing  suppliant,  writhing  with 
strange  agonies.  .  .  .  Now  it  standeth  pas- 
sive, in  sinister  silence !     And  now  it  goeth  — 

152 


The  Passing  of  Lilith 

it   passeth  —  is   no   more.     Yet,    see,    in   the 
heart  of  the  spray  it  cometh  again! 

[Then,  as  though  aweary  of  the  vision,  Lilith 
turneth  away,  and,  going  through  the  col- 
onnades of  the  forest,  cometh  to  the 
great  hill  that  is  in  the  midst  of  Eden. 
And  having  gained  the  summit  of  the 
hill,  she  looketh  long  toward  the  North 
and  toward  the  East,  where  the  volcanic 
mountains  are  as  a  girdle  of  flame  and 
falling  ashes. 
And  a  strange  trouble  cometh  upon  her,  and 
she  averteth  her  gaze,  and  descendeth  the 
great  hill  that  is  in  the  midst  of  Eden, 
and  passeth  again  into  the  forest;  though 
she  goeth  not  by  the  fountain,  but  by  the 
starlit  ways  where  the  night-flowers  ex- 
hale exquisite  odours  that  are  as  dreams.] 

THE  VOICE  OF   THE   SPIRIT  OF   THIS   WORLD 

From  afar  I  sigh  for  thee,  O  Beauty  of  the 
World! 

LILITH 

[Moving  her  lips.]     I  would  be  alone  this 
night. 

THE  VOICE 

[As  the  passing  of  the  wind.]     Even  as  thy 

thought  is  my  thought,  so  is  thy  will  my  will. 

[As  the  coming  of  moonlight  through  the 

dusk  is  the  voice  —  as  from  afar  off  — 

of   Uluel,    the    fairest   of    the    Sons    of 

God.  .  .  .] 

153 


William  Sharp 

THE   VOICE   OF   ULUEL 

Thou  art  as  white  fire  in  my  heart,  O 
Beauty  of  the  World! 

LILITH 

[Alow  and  at  rest,  upon  a  slope  of  white 
violets,  lying  as  surf  round  the  cavernous 
bases  of  vast  trees.~\  For  I  am  with  thee  as 
a  Dream !     But  come  not,  for  I  — 

[A  wind  ariseth,  and  passeth.] 
THE  VOICE  OF   ULUEL 

But  lo !  the  time  is  at  hand  when  — 

[A  wind  cometh  and  goeth,  and  the  voice  is 
borne  away.  And  there  is  utter  silence 
in  Eden.  And  Lilith  sleepeth. 
Hour  by  hour  the  dark  blue  veil  of  night  is 
withdrawn,  and  star  after  star  is  left  pale 
and  evanescent.  And  when  none  is  left 
to  front  the  rose-light  of  the  new  day, 
save  the  white  fire  of  Phosphor,  that  is 
the  lamp  of  morning ;  and  when  a  raptur- 
ous glow  hath  bourgeoned  like  a  flower 
over  the  Garden  of  Eden;  and  when  a 
Breath  of  Joy  gladdeneth  the  world; 
Lilith  awaketh.  Then  having  listened 
awhile  to  the  song  of  life,  and  drunken 
of  the  dew  that  lies  in  the  chalices  of  the 
white  flowers,  and  eaten  of  the  golden 
manna  that  awaiteth  her  where  she  will, 
she  smileth,  and  with  a  wild,  sweet  song, 
passeth  like  a  dream  of  sunlight  through 
the  glades  of  Eden.  And  ever  as  she 
goeth,  shadowy  and  beautiful  forms  like 
unto  the  souls  of  men  follow  after  her: 

154 


The  Passing  of  Lilith 

and  as  she  passeth  beneath  the  trees,  she 
ofttimes  plucketh  the  fruit  thereof,  and, 
kissing  it,  giveth  of  the  fruit  now  unto 
this  one  and  now  unto  that.] 

LILITH 

[Standing  still,  and  as  though  listening  in- 
tently.]    And  if  it  so  be  — 

FAINT  VOICES   FROM  THE  BEAUTIFUL  SHADOWY 
FORMS 

Give  us  of  the  fruit !     Give  us  of  the  fruit ! 

LILITH 

[Throwing  away  the  last  fruit  she  pluckt.] 
In  the  youth  of  the  world  I  dreamt  — 

FAINT  VOICES 

Give  us  of  the  fruit !     Give  us  of  the  fruit ! 

LILITH 

[Sombrely.]     And  the  Vjoice  that  I  have 
heard  thrice,  and  know  not  — 

FAINT  VOICES 

Give  us  of  the  fruit !    Give  us  of  the  fruit  f 
Oh,  give  us  of  the  fruit. 

LILITH 

[Looking  upon  one  of  the  Shadow-souls.] 
What  would'st  thou? 

THE  SHADOW-SOUL 

The  fruit! 

LILITH 

Thou  art  a  dream  that  is  undreamed. 
155 


William  Sharp 

THE   SHADOW-SOUL 

The  fruit  —  oh,  give  us  of  the  fruit. 

[Slowly  Lilith  plucketh  a  fruit  from  off  the 
tree,  and,  kissing  it,  giveth  it  to  the 
suppliant.] 

THE   SHADOW-SOUL 

Ah,  joy!  joy!  I  am  the  Breath  of  Life! 
Immortal    Life  —  Immortal    Joy ! 

[As  the  Shadow-Soul  eateth  of  the  fruit,  it 
becometh  like  a  rosy  phantom',  with  eyes 
as  if  filled  with  sunshine,  and  with  a  face 
like  unto  a  sunlit  sea.] 

THE   SHADOW-SOUL 

[Moving  apart  from  its  fellows.]  Farewell ! 
Farewell!  For  I  am:  and  ye  are  as  dreams 
that  are  undreamed. 

[And  as  he  goeth,  the  wild  birds  of  Eden 
hover  above  him,  and  under  his  feet  red 
and  white  flowers  spring,  and  a  low 
music  followeth  his  steps.] 

LILITH 

[As  in  a  dream.]  Farewell!  Farewell! 
For  I  am :  and  ye  are  as  dreams  that  are  un- 
dreamed. 

[But  after  the  Shadow-Soul  hath  eaten  of 
the  fruit,  the  low  music  changeth  into  a 
mournful  sighing,  and  the  birds  become 
like  unto  bats,  and  small,  writhing  snakes 
move  where  first  were  the  red  and  white 
flowers.    Then  the  rosy  phantom  fadeth 

156 


The  Passing  of  Lilith 

into  greyness,  and  is  no  more.  And 
nought  of  the  Shadow- Soul  remaineth, 
save  one  drop  of  blood  which  is  like  unto 
a  bleeding  heart,  but  speedily  sinketh 
into  the  ground.  And  Lilith  knoweth 
that  before  she  pass  that  way  again  it 
will  be  a  plant,  and  thereafter  a  tree, 
whereon  will  grow  the  mystic  fruit 
wherewith  unto  these  her  worshippers 
she  giveth  life  and  death.] 
LILITH 

[Slowly  reiterating.]     Farewell !    Farewell ! 

For  I  am:  and  ye  are  as  dreams  that  are 

undreamed. 

[Slowly  Lilith,  passing  from  the  trees  of  the 
fruit,  with  a  wave  of  her  hand  dismisseth 
all  those  that  follow  her  with  the  hunger 
that  is  more  than  bodily  hunger,  and  the 
thirst  that  is  more  than  bodily  thirst. 
Like  a  dream  of  the  sunlight,  she  goeth 
through  the  aisles  of  the  forest.  The 
glory  of  the  morning  falling  upon  her 
maketh  her  long  hair  as  beaten  gold  — 
as  pale  gold  that  is  aflame  with  an  inner 
consuming  fire.  Her  white  body  is  as 
the  ivory-white  lily  that  groweth  in  soli- 
tary beauty  in  the  heart  of  Eden:  and 
the  going  of  her  is  as  the  wave  that 
moveth  before  the  wind  upon  the  deep: 
and  the  light  that  is  in  her  eyes  of 
fathomless  blue  is  as  that  of  the  azure 
heaven  an  hour  before  the  setting  of  the 
sun. 
And  as  she  goeth,  she  seeth  down  the  vast 

157 


William  Sharp 

vista  of  Eden  the  beautiful  Uluel,  the 
fairest  of  the  Sons  of  God.  With  him  are 
three  others,  each  lovely  as  daybreak. 
But  Uluel  is  as  the  splendour  of  day. 
And  as  they  come  nearer,  the  three  vanish 
into  the  golden  glow,  and  Uluel  is  alone. 
Then  as  a  moving  river  of  light  he 
draweth  near  unto  Lilith,  and  she  seeth 
that  the  glory  of  his  loveliness  passeth 
knowledge.  Hand  in  hand,  they  go  forth 
together;  and  the  innermost  flower  of 
flowers  rejoiceth,  and  each  blade  of 
grass  bendeth  as  with  a  wind.  And 
throughout  Eden  there  is  a  sound  as  of 
the  laughter  of  life. 

And  while  the  moon  prevaileth,  Uluel,  the 
fairest  of  the  Sons  of  God,  and  Lilith  lie 
among  the  lilies  of  the  valley,  where  the 
spray  of  the  fountain  cools  the  air,  and 
the  shadows  are  deep  from  the  great 
boughs  of  ancient  trees.  The  joy  that  is 
their  joy  passeth  knowledge,  for  Mortal- 
ity is  swallowed  up  in  Immortality,  as  the 
stars  that  perish  lie  in  the  heart  of  the 
firmament.  And  Uluel,  the  Son  of  God, 
trembleth  because  of  the  unspeakable  sin, 
and  anon  trembleth  with  the  greatness  of 
unspeakable  joy.    And  Lilith  dreameth. 

When  the  day  waneth  in  its  glory,  and  the 
night,  clothed  with  magnificence,  is  at 
hand,  Uluel  riseth.] 

ULUEL 
Lilith,  Heart  of  Beauty,  wilt  thou  come? 

158 


The  Passing  of  Lilith 

LILITH 

I  perish  yonder. 

ULUEL 

Thou  canst  not  die.    Thou  art  immortal. 

LILITH 

I  dreamed  that  I  should  die  daily,  and  a 
thousand  deaths. 

ULUEL 

Love  scorneth  fear. 

LILITH 

Fear  warneth  love. 

ULUEL 

Come! 

LILITH 

Show  me  the  portals  of  thy  golden  house. 

ULUEL 

[Troubled.]     What  wouldst  thou? 

LILITH 

Thee! 

ULUEL 

I  must  go  hence.     Already  — 

[A  wind  riseth,  and  passeth;  and  Lilith,  ly- 
ing upon  the  lilies  alone,  dreameth  hour 
after  hour.  Slowly  the  day  goeth 
through  the  gold  and  purple  gates  of  the 
West :  and  the  eve,  with  a  crown  of  stars, 
cometh  through  the  violet  shadows. 
Through  velvety  glooms  of  darkness  the 
night  falleth,  and  the  later  splendour  of 
the  moon  doth  not  dim  the  glory  of  the 
stars.] 

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William  Sharp 

THE   VOICE   OF   THE   SPIRIT   OF   THIS   WORLD 

From  afar  I  sigh  for  thee,  O  Beauty  of  the 
World! 

LILITH 

[With  outstretched  arms.]  Come  unto  me, 
O  Flame  of  Love ! 

[Out  of  the  dusk  cometh  a  great  Snake, 
of  a  beauty  beyond  words,  and  girt  with 
a  splendour  like  unto  the  wavelets  of  the 
sea  when  the  moonlight  lies  upon  the 
deep. 

As  he  moveth,  there  is  a  sound  as  of  a 
multitude  of  sweet  lutes ;  as  he  breatheth, 
there  is  an  echo  of  a  myriad  delicate 
strains.  His  voice  is  as  the  voice  of  the 
woods  at  sunrise,  of  the  pastures  when 
the  day  is  done,  of  the  West  wind  in 
valleys  near  the  sea,  of  the  rain  after 
long  drought.  And  Lilith  giveth  a  low 
cry,  and  he  passeth  unto  her. 

And  far  away  beyond  the  abysmal  disc  of 
the  sun,  Uluel  singeth  before  God:  and 
knoweth  not  that  he  is  blind,  and  that 
God  seeth,  and  waiteth.] 

LILITH 

[Whispering  to  the  beautiful  Snake  coiled 
about  her,  as  the  ivy  is  at  one  with  the  tree  it 
claspeth.]     Yet  if  dreams  — 

THE   SPIRIT  OF   THIS   WORLD 

Thou  thyself  art  the  Dream  of  the  World. 
[The  moonlight  spreadeth   as  a  flood,  and 

1 60 


The  Passing  of  Lilith 

the  great  beasts  of  Eden  meet  and  re- 
joice with  one  another. 

And  Lilith  and  the  Spirit  of  the  World  are 
at  one,  as  two  rivers  that  flow  into  one 
sea.  The  mystery  and  the  wonder  and 
the  secret  ecstasy  of  night  enter  into 
them,  and  they  know  the  unspeakable 
fear   and   the   unspeakable  joy. 

But  toward  the  noon  of  night  a  strange, 
wild  chant,  surpassing  sweet,  draweth 
near.  Then,  with  a  low  sigh,  the  Snake 
uncoileth  from  the  body  of  Lilith  and 
passeth  into  the  darkness  like  unto  the 
going  of  a  moonlit  river.  Awhile  doth 
Lilith  list  to  the  roaring  of  the  wild 
beasts  of  Eden,  and  rejoice  in  their  joy: 
but  as  the  strange  singing  cometh  nearer 
she  riseth  in  her  place,  and  waiteth  as 
one  who  watcheth  for  her  beloved. 

Erelong  issueth  out  of  the  green  gloom  a 
white  company  of  beautiful  beings,  love- 
lier than  aught  else  in  Eden.  Yet  none 
knoweth  their  song  save  Lilith,  for  of 
all   that  pass   by   she   is   the   mother. 

And  some  are  the  offspring  of  her  com- 
merce with  Uluel,  the  fairest  of  the  Sons 
of  God:  and  some  are  born  of  her  dal- 
liance with  the  beautiful  Earth-Spirit, 
that  is  the  Snake. 

One  by  one  she  calleth  unto  them:  unto  the 
children  of  Uluel  —  Hopes,  Aspirations, 
Fair  Beliefs,  Virtues,  Glories,  Joys,  and 
Raptures:  and  unto  the  children  of  the 
Earth-Spirit  equally  fair  to  look  upon  — 
Desires,  Lusts,  Agonies,  Passions,  Temp- 
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William  Sharp 

tations,  Sins,  Shantes,  Sorrows,  and 
Despairs. 

But  they,  her  offspring,  will  not  abide; 
singing  their  mystic  chant,  one  and  all 
pass  by.  And  when  the  white  proces- 
sion is  no  more,  Lilith  sinketh  again  upon 
the  ground,  and,  sleeping,  dreameth  a 
dream.  And  in  her  dream  she  seeth  how 
all  these  offspring  of  her  joys  journey 
unto  a  strange  goal:  and  how  the  chil- 
dren of  the  Snake,  who  are  as  males, 
terribly  woo  the  children  of  the  Son  of 
God,  who  are  as  beautiful  female  spirits. 

But,  in  the  midst  of  her  dream,  she  awaketh 
trembling,  for  a  Voice  prevaileth  through 
the  Gates  of  Death  and  Sleep.] 

THE  VOICE 
Arise,  thou  that  are  Lilith ! 

LILITH 

[Trembling.]     It  is  He! 

THE  VOICE 

Arise,  Lilith,  Spirit  of  the  Flesh,  and  go  up 
upon  the  mountain. 

[Thereat  Lilith,  rising  from  her  place, 
passeth  through  the  wood  to  the  great 
hill  that  is  in  the  midst  of  Eden.  And  in 
her  heart  there  is  the  weight  of  the  old- 
world  dreams.  As  she  climbeth  the 
great  hill  by  the  light  of  the  flaming 
volcanoes,  her  face  is  pale  as  the  light 
on  a  moonless  sea.    And  when  she  look- 

162 


The  Passing  of  Lilith 

eth  forth  from  the  summit  upon  the 
girdle  of  mountains,  belching  forever 
their  spume  of  red  flames  and  clouds 
of  molten  ashes,  her  heart  faileth  her  for 
terror.  For  all  the  heavens  —  from  the 
verge  of  the  world  to  the  farthest  of  the 
stars  —  are  alive  with  thin  spectral 
flames:  the  vital  essences,  as  Lilith 
knoweth,  of  those  innumerable  worship- 
pers of  hers  who  through  past  ages  have 
eaten  of  her  mystic  fruit.  Moreover, 
each  supplicateth  wildly  to  the  unknown 
God ] 

Give  us  life,  that  we  triumph  over  this 
beautiful  Evil,  which  hath  no  soul,  but  who 
is  yet  immortal ! 

[And,  much  troubled,  Lilith  descendeth  the 
great  hill  that  is  in  the  midst  of  Eden. 
And  at  the  fountain  which  welleth  from 
the  womb  of  the  earth,  and  at  the  phan- 
tasm of  herself  in  the  spray  thereof,  she 
looketh  long  and  broodingly.  There- 
after, with  lips  muttering,  but  without 
words,  and  with  downcast  eyes,  she 
passeth  onward  toward  the  margin  of 
the  great  sea  that  covereth  all  the  world 
to  the  West. 
There  until  the  dawn  lieth  she,  silent,  mo- 
tionless, as  one  dead.  And  at  the  out- 
burst of  the  glory  of  the  rising  sun,  there 
cometh  a  terrible  voice  out  of  the  hol- 
low heaven:] 

163 


William  Sharp 

THE  VOICE 

Behold,  man  shall  be  born  upon  the  earth. 
He  shall  inherit  it.  Unto  the  children  of 
man  is  delivered  thine  inheritance.  Hence 
pass  thou,  Lilith,  even  unto  the  great  sea  — 
thou  and  thine. 

LILITH 

[Slowly  rising.]  Even  so.  For  my  time 
is  come  upon  me. 

[Then  knowing  that  her  time  is  come  upon 
her,  and  that  all  things  must  be  fulfilled, 
she  goeth  forward,  silent,  and  trembling 
not,  but  with  downcast  eyes,  and  lieth  by 
the  uttermost  margin  of  the  great  sea. 
All  day  long  she  abideth  there;  nor 
weepeth,  nor  maketh  any  wail  of  sor- 
row; but  lieth  ever  with  her  breast 
against  the  sand,  and  with  fixed  eyes  star- 
ing upon  the  sea. 

And  none  cometh  nigh  her:  neither  Uluel, 
the  fairest  of  the  Sons  of  God;  nor  the 
fair  Snake,  which  is  the  Spirit  of  this 
World;  nor  any  of  her  beautiful  off- 
spring; nor  any  of  her  shadow-worship- 
pers, that  are  as  the  grains  of  sand  in 
numbers;  nor  any  fond  beast  or  shelter- 
ing bird. 

And  at  the  noon  of  day,  Lilith  crieth  aloud 
once.] 

Uluel ! 

[And  at  the  waning  of  the  day,  Lilith  cries 
aloud  yet  again:] 

164 


The  Passing  of  Lilith 

Uluel ! 

[Slowly  the  fan-flame  of  the  sun  waneth 
above  the  great  sea,  and  there  is  deep 
peace  in  Eden. 
But  ere  the  passing  of  the  sun,  and  when 
all  the  ocean  is  red  as  with  blood,  the 
company  of  the  offspring  of  Lilith  by  the 
Son  of  God  and  by  the  Spirit  of  the 
Earth  come  unto  her  out  of  Eden :  Hopes 
and  Despairs,  Virtues  and  Sins,  Glories 
and  Shames,  Raptures  and  Agonies,  one 
and  all  come  they  unto  her,  their 
mother.] 

THE   CHILDREN   OF   LILITH 

[Slowly  chanting.]     We  are  immortal,  and 
we  cannot  die ! 

[There  is  no  following  sound,  no  answer, 
but  the  moaning  of  the  sea.] 

THE   CHILDREN   OF   LILITH 

[With  alien  voices,  passing  away.]    We  are 
immortal,  and  we  cannot  die! 

[But  Lilith,  who  hath  stirred  not  for  all 
their  advent,  only  smileth  constrainedly, 
and  turneth  not  her  staring  eyes  from  off 
the  deep.  And  the  faint  voices  of  the 
children  of  Lilith  are  lost  in  the  moan- 
ing voice  of  the  waters.] 

LILITH 

Beautiful  Spirit,  I  am  thine. 

[But  only  the  night  cometh.  And  the  sea 
moveth   as   though   quickened    into   life, 

165 


William  Sharp 

and  advanceth  upon  the  land.  When  the 
moon  riseth,  there  is  nought  upon  the 
shore  save  a  little  frothing  foam.  In  the 
silence  of  the  night  strange  cries  vibrate, 
and  shadows  innumerable  pass  to  and  fro, 
in  the  valleys  of  Eden. 
And  at  sunrise  God  breatheth  upon  the 
dust,  and  Adam  is.] 

( 1886  and  18P3.) 


166 


The  Lute  Player 


Les  fibres  de  son  coeur  font  les  cordes  d'un 

luth 
Qui    rhythme    les    accords    des    splendeurs 

eternelles.  .  .  . 

ISRAFEL. 


THE  LUTE  PLAYER 

[In  a  long,  high-vaulted  room,  looking  out 
upon  a  Roman  garden  where  the  cypresses 
rise  in  narrowing  shafts  from  thickets  of 
oleander  and  myrtle,  is  seated  a  com- 
pany of  men  and  women,  feasting. 
Touched  with  the  coolness  of  the  eve  that 
has  scarce  come  .  .  .  though  the  last 
floating  cloudlets  of  crimson  and  pink, 
like  petals  fallen  from  a  late-gathered 
rose,  still  linger  beyond  the  garden- 
fringe  of  ilex  and  pine  .  .  .  the  soft, 
warm  air  of  early  summer  steals  into  the 
room,  laden  with  subtle  odours,  and  re- 
verberant as  a  hollow  shell  with  vague 
sounds  —  the  hum  of  the  bees  in  the 
mignonette,  of  the  gnats  upon  the  wing, 
of  the  dragon-flies  as  they  dart  to  and 
fro  above  the  sunken  fish-ponds.] 

At  the  head  of  the  table,  facing  the  open 
window,  sits  a  Cardinal ;  beyond  him  on  either 
side  are  men  and  women,  for  the  most  part 
young.  The  dancing-girls  have  just  gone, 
and  a  sudden  hush  has  come  out  of  the  twi- 
light upon  all  assembled.  A  few  look  before 
them  pensively,  or  idle  with  the  rose  leaves 
in  the  water  in  the  crystal  globes  beside  them ; 
but  most  look  towards  the  garden,  where  the 

169 


William  Sharp 

shadows  are  fantastically  long  or  merged  in 
a  violet  gloom. 

The  light  in  the  west  has  become  gold  and 
purple,  with  a  wide  stretch  of  pale,  translu- 
cent green,  against  which  the  cypresses  stand 
black  and  moveless:  over  all  the  sky  is  one 
vast  wave  of  daffodil.  Out  of  the  heart  of  a 
myrtle-thicket  comes  the  song  of  a  nightin- 
gale, so  thrilling  with  exultant  passion  that  no 
one  dares  speak  or  move  lest  the  charm  be  no 
more. 

When,  abruptly,  the  song  ceases,  there  is 
still  silence  throughout  the  room.     But  sud- 
denly a  low,  penetrating  strain  of  music  floats 
in  upon  the  evening  air,  so  poignant  and  yet 
so  delicate,  so  rare  and  yet  with  touches  of 
such  sweet  familiarity,  that  tears  come  into 
the  eyes  of  many.      Yet  none  knoweth  who 
the  musician  is:  and  if  some  think  that  the 
subtle  playing  comes  from  the  garden,  others 
believe  that  the  Cardinal  has  secreted  a  lute- 
player  somewhere  in  the  room,  or  behind  the 
tapestries  or  waving  curtains.     And  to  some 
comes  a  sudden  sense  of  peace,  to  others  a 
quick   joy.     But   one  youth,    turning  to   the 
fair  woman  beside  him,  is  startled  to  see  that 
her  eyes  look  toward  him  as  through  a  veil, 
and  that  her  beauty  shines  upon  him  afar  off, 
as  in  a  pool  the  fugitive  light  briefly  lingers 

170 


The  Lute  Player 

while  the  moon  rests  on  the  "mountain 
shoulder.  With  a  strange  dread  at  his  heart 
he  is  about  to  lean  forward,  when  he  shrinks 
in  terror,  for  between  him  and  her  yawns  a 
black  and  bottomless  gulf. 

As  a  ripple  of  laughter  and  the  sound  of  the 
wind  among  the  grasses,  goes  the  eager  ap- 
plause of  those  sitting  at  the  feast;  and,  low 
and  clear  above  all,  the  voice  of  the  Cardinal, 
bidding  the  musician  enter  and  be  one  of  his 
company.  But  the  youth  shudders,  for  now 
he  hears,  as  it  were,  the  echo  of  the  music 
floating  up  from  the  hollow  blackness  of  the 
gulf.  Then,  with  a  fear  such  as  he  has  never 
known  before,  he  rises,  and  reaches  forward 
to  gather  to  his  arms  the  woman  whom  he 
loves;  but,  even  while  he  still  hears  the  blithe 
voices  of  the  guests,  he  knows  that  he  is  sink- 
ing like  a  falling  feather  into  the  gulf.  From 
far  beneath  he  hears  the  strange  music  of 
the  Lute-player;  far  above,  the  faint  echo  of 
it  among  the  revellers,  of  whom  he  was  one 
but  a  moment  ago.  As  a  swimmer  sinks 
down  into  a  fathomless  sea,  so  sinks  he:  and 
in  the  waning  gleam  overhead,  as  of  vanish- 
ing moonlight,  he  sees  the  pale,  mourning  face 
of  her  whom  he  loves. 

With  a  light  laugh,  the  Cardinal  calls: — 
"  Ah !  there  goes  the  Lute-player :  I  saw  his 

171 


William  Sharp 

shadow  fall  upon  the  floor  near  the  window." 
And  a  guest  cries : — 
"  And  the  nightingale  has  heard  him  too !  " 

Whereat  there  is  again  a  profound  stillness ; 
for  all  sit  entranced  by  the  song  of  the  unseen 
bird,  which  is  now  sad  beyond  words,  and  as 
though  the  little  heart  were  breaking.  The 
silence  following  is  full  of  the  afterthought  of 
sweet  music,  as  a  calm  sea  is  full  of  the  moon- 
light long  after  a  cloud-film  veils  the  hollow 
sky.  But  suddenly,  from  the  dusky  avenues 
at  the  far  end  of  the  garden,  the  vanishing 
lilt  of  a  lute  falls  upon  the  ears  of  all.  So 
sweet  and  blithe  its  music,  that  each  smiles 
as  with  sudden  gladness  and  relief:  none 
knowing  what  silence  has  suddenly  come  unto 
one  of  them,  what  horror  of  deep  darkness, 
what  engulfing  despair. 

[And  the  Lute-player,  passing  unseen  down 
the  dark  ways,  fares  toward  the  city: 
where  the  noise  of  falling  waters  is 
sweet  to  tired  ears,  and  the  hot  air  cooled 
with  blown  spray.] 

As  he  silently  goes  on  his  way,  none  knows 
of  his  presence.  But  as  he  passes  by  a  house 
in  an  obscure  street,  he  hears  a  long,  wailing 
cry:  whereat  he  stands  still,  and  listens  in- 
tently ere,  unseen,  he  enters  and  goes  towards 
a  room  where,  by  the  bed  of  a  child,  a  mother 

172 


The  Lute  Player 

kneels,  sobbing  and  crying  to  God.  In  the 
shadow,  unseen  and  unheard,  he  looks  long  at 
the  woman  and  at  the  child.  Then,  slowly 
and  softly,  he  begins  to  play ;  and  the  room  is 
full  of  the  delicate  music  of  his  lute,  and  upon 
the  face  of  the  child  is  an  exceeding  joy. 
And  the  child,  with  thin  arms  suddenly  out- 
stretched, cries  eagerly: 

"  Mother !  mother !  I  see  a  beautiful  stream, 
all  gold  in  the  sunshine;  and  beyond  it  is  a 
meadow  full  of  flowers;  and  everywhere, 
everywhere,  oh,  the  sweet  songs!  Oh, 
mother !  mother !  the  music,  the  sweet  music !  " 

And  the  mother  pitifully  cries  out : — 

u  Yes,  yes,  my  little  one :  it  is  but  a  lute- 
player  in  the  street." 

But  as  she  would  reach  to  her  child,  she 
hearkens  as  it  were  to  the  lute-music,  floating 
far  away  above  a  mad  rush  and  surge  of 
waters:  and  among  the  screams  of  drowning 
wretches  she  hears  a  cry  that  goes  to  her 
heart,  and  at  the  same  moment  sees  her  child 
whirled  on  high  and  hurled  through  the  swirl- 
ing foam  into  the  darkness  beyond.  Then, 
with  a  wild  cry,  she  falls  forward  un- 
conscious. 

[In  the  stillness  and  in  the  shadow,  the 
Lute-player  goes  forth  into  the  street. 
And  passing  hence  into  a  lonely  and  evil 
quarter,  he  plays  upon  his  lute,  but  so 

173 


William  Sharp 

softly  that  none  hears  him.  It  is  as 
though  the  blossoms  on  the  fruit-trees 
were  whispering  to  the  leaves,  as  though 
the  moonbeams  were  dancing  with  the 
ripples  on  a  stream,  as  though  the  wan- 
dering white  rays  of  the  stars  were 
tangled  in  the  long  grasses  and  made  a 
sweet,  bewildering  music. 
Thereafter,  passing  by  foul  places  and  dens 
of  loathsome  evil,  the  low,  haunting 
strain  wanders,  wanders,  drifting  this 
way  .and  that,  as  though  innumerable 
winged  spirits  were  floating  earthward 
with  the  falling  dew,  singing  their  thin 
aerial  song,  surpassing  sweet.  Some 
hear  it  for  a  moment,  fleetingly  faint,  be- 
hind a  curtain,  or  in  a  dark  passage,  or 
betwixt  the  sudden  opening  and  closing 
of  a  door.  Sometimes  it  is  a  vanishing 
echo,  sweet  and  joyous  as  of  the  dawn- 
wind  stirring  among  the  upper  branches 
of  the  forest,  as  the  rippling  wash  of  the 
sea  when  the  sunglow  streams  upon  it: 
sometimes  it  is  vague  and  far  as  the 
fall  of  snow  upon  the  woodlands  when 
there  is  no  wind,  as  the  whisper  of  the 
last  breath  of  air  swooning  upon  the 
pastures,  as  the  faint  falling  music  of 
the  wild  hyacinths  and  lilies  of  the  valley 
in  the  hollow  beyond  the  blown  spray 
of  the  waterfall.] 

And   passing   down   a   narrow   street,   the 
Lute-player  comes   upon  a  man  going  cau- 

174 


The  Lute  Player 

tiously  in  the  shadow :  who,  fearful  of  follow- 
ing steps,  turns,  muttering  hoarsely: 

"Who  art  thou?" 

But  hearing  from  the  Lute-player  that  he 
is  only  a  wandering  musician  faring  way- 
wardly  through  the  city,  the  man  cries 
blithely:— 

"What  do  you  sing?  For  I  know  where 
a  good  song  will  be  welcome ! " 

Whereupon  the  Lute-player  answers  sim- 
ply: 

"  I  sing  of  Life  ...  and  Death." 

With  a  challenging  voice  the  man  says: — 

"  Come,  a  song  for  a  song !  " 

And  he  begins  a  carol  of  life  and  the  many 
joys  thereof,  and  mocking  at  death: — 

O  Day  come  unto  me, 
Fair  and  so  sweet! 
Crowrid  shalt  thou  be, 
And  with  wing'd  feet, 
Escape  the  invading  sea, 
Whose  bitter  line 

Follows  o'er  fleet. 
What  joy  thou  would' st  is  thine: 
Life  is  divine, 

O  Fair  and  Sweet! 

Death  is  a  paltry  thought: 
A  little  troublous  thing  — 

175 


William  Sharp 

An  insect's  sting! 
Beautiful  Day,  oh,  heed  it  not! 
Death  is  a  vain,  a  — 

But  he  ceases  abruptly  as  the  Lute-player 
suddenly  touches  his  lute:  and  so  passing  rare 
is  the  music  that  the  man  stands  entranced. 
Nor  does  he  speak  any  word  or  make  any 
gesture,  as  he  hears  it  lessening  and  vanishing. 
[In  the  deep  shadow  of  the  street  the  Lute- 
player  is  seen  no  more,  and  the  thrilling, 
evanishing    strain    passes    away    at    last, 
sweet  as  faint  inland  echoes  heard  long- 
ingly through  the  dusk  at  sea.] 

With  a  low  sigh  the  man  turns,  but  sud- 
denly reels  with  horror  to  see  that  he  is  in  a 
city  of  flame,  and  that  the  street  before  him 
is  a  broad  and  fathomless  river  of  blood.  As, 
with  a  terrible  cry,  he  falls  therein,  he  does 
not  see  the  figure  of  his  enemy  behind  him, 
nor  feel  the  long  knife  of  the  assassin  that 
transfixes  his  heart. 

[And  the  Lute-player,  traversing  the  city, 
crosses  one  of  the  bridges  that  span  the 
immemorial  river  whereon  it  is  set. 
Halting  midway,  he  looks  broodingly 
upon  the  slow-moving  flood  whose  gurg- 
ling current  washes  the  piers  beneath  him. 
Once,  smiling  darkly,  he  raises  his  hand, 
about  to  play  a  music  so  wild  and  strange 
that  the  whole  city  should  hearken:  but, 

176 


The  Lute  Player 

with  a  sigh,  he  forbears.  As  he  moves, 
he  descries  in  the  opposite  embrasure  a 
woman,  young  and  fair  but  for  the  hag- 
gard weariness  of  her  face,  stooping,  and 
staring  steadily  at  the  water  in  its  dull, 
monotonous  flow.  Softly  he  touches  his 
lute  to  a  delicate,  distant  melody:  ex- 
quisite vibrations  as  though  of  long  for- 
gotten strains,  of  loved  sounds  and 
voices.] 

Once,  with  a  strange,  reluctant  fear,  the  girl 
turns ;  but  seeing  him  not  in  the  shadow,  and 
thinking  herself  alone  with  the  murmuring 
water,  looks  no  more.  So  subtly  soft  and 
sweet  is  the  music  stealing  upon  her  ears,  that 
it  is  as  though  it  came  from  afar.  Hearing  it, 
she  smells  again  the  wild  roses  and  the  honey- 
suckle in  the  hedges ;  listens  to  the  bees  lazily 
fumbling  among  the  red  and  white  clover  in 
the  hot  pastures,  to  the  faint  wind  astir 
among  the  flowering  beans,  to  the  lowing  of 
distant  cows,  to  the  haunting  call  of  the 
cuckoo  above  the  woodlands  where  a  sleepy 
murmur  comes  from  the  cushats'  nests.  But, 
listening  entranced,  the  haunting  strains  come 
to  her  at  last  not  from  afar,  but  from  below, 
deep  from  the  heart  of  the  flood  flowing  on- 
ward for  ever  and  ever.  Suddenly  a  great 
trembling  comes  upon  her:  and  in  a  low 
voice  she  cries: — 

177 


William  Sharp 

"Who  is  there?" 

As  from  among  the  grasses  she  hears  the 
sound  of  small  feet  running,  and  of  a  soft, 
low  laughter.  Springing  downward  with  a 
cry,  she  hearkens  to  the  strange  music,  ringing 
in  her  ears  wildly  sweet:  but  as  the  dark 
waters  overwhelm  her,  she  knows  nought 
save  a  horrible  choking  as  of  a  suffocating 
child,  the  fierce  execrations  and  blows  of  a 
man,  and  a  fearful,  fathomless  gulf  into  which 
she  is  sinking  as  a  stone  into  the  abyss. 

[For  long,  and  as  though  wearily,  the  Lute- 
player  leans  upon  the  bridge.  The  wash 
of  the  water  and  the  sough  of  the  night- 
wind  alone  break  the  stillness;  yet  it  is 
to  him  as  though  with  their  undertone  are 
wrought  remoter  harmonies  of  earth  and 
sky,  wherein  also  the  moonlight  and  the 
far  icy  stars  and  the  wandering  clouds 
have  utterance. 
When,  at  the  last,  veiled  in  shadow,  he 
passes  on,  the  dawn  breaks.  Erelong  the 
opal  of  the  east  is  haloed  by  great  fan- 
like streamers  of  gold  and  crimson:  and 
those  looking  upon  the  morning  star  see 
beneath  it  the  unfolding  of  the  splendour 
of  the  Flower  of  Day.  The  boatmen  on 
the  long  barges  and  moored  sloops  upon 
the  river  hear  for  a  moment  the  echo 
of  a  sweet,  a  blithe  sweet  song:  and  the 
peasants  trooping  through  the  fields  lis- 
ten intently  to  catch  again  the  happy  lilt 
of  delicate  strains  heard  afar:  and  upon 

178 


The  Lute  Player 

the  hills  the  shepherds  look  upward,  with 
hands  shading  their  eyes,  half  startled  by 
faint  vanishing  cadences  of  joyous  music. 
The  birds  sing,  and  the  flowers  bloom,  and 
the  winds  unfold  their  wings  and  fare 
forth  in  the  sunshine.  Everywhere, 
everywhere,  the  joy  and  glory  of  life. 
And  the  Lute-player,  clothed  with  a  ra- 
diance of  sunlight  and  with  eyes  of  morn- 
ing, moves  onward  through  the  glad 
noon,  playing  ever  his  wild,  sweet  song: 
for  unto  him  is  no  night  and  no  day, 
and  unto  him  no  morrow  comes  for 
whom  all  morrows  are  but  strains  re- 
membered from  an  antique  song.] 


179 


The  Whisperer 


THE  WHISPERER 

I 

[A  summer  noon,  in  a  crowded  thoroughfare 
of  London.  The  sunlight  slants  through 
a  thin  veil  of  blue,  and  becomes  a  pale 
gold  on  the  street,  where  the  endless 
surge  of  the  traffic  is  as  the  waters  of 
the  sea  caught  in  a  narrow  strait. 
Among  the  hundreds  who  hurry  this  way 
and  that  goes  a  man  who  looks  beyond 
him  as  though  he  descried  somewhat 
afar  off  for  which  he  yearned.  Some- 
times he  stops  abruptly,  and  with  startled 
eyes  stares  at  the  man  or  woman  at  that 
moment  by  his  side:  sometimes  he 
speaks,  though  none  answers  him.] 
THE   MAN 

[Stopping  abruptly,  in  his  rapid  walk  east- 
ward,  while  the   light  wanes  from  his 
eyes.] 
Who  spoke? 

THE   WHISPERER 

It  is  I. 

THE  MAN 

Who  art  thou? 

[Silence.] 

THE  MAN 

[Turning  first  to  one  person  moving  past 
him,  then  to  another.]     What  is  it? 

183 


William  Sharp 


[Each  stares  for  a  moment,  but  none  an- 
swers. All  whom  he  addresses  hurry  on 
without  regarding  him:  a  few  glance  at 
him  and  mutter  irritably  or  scornfully. 
Slowly  he  resumes  his  way.  Again  the 
voice  is  in  his  ear.] 


Who  spoke? 
It  is  I. 


THE   MAN 

THE   WHISPERER 

THE   MAN 


Who  art  thou? 

THE   WHISPERER 

I  am  of  Those  who  watch. 

THE   MAN 

For  whom? 


THE   MAN 


For  what? 


[Silence.] 
[Silence.] 


THE  MAN 

Art  thou  here? 

THE  WHISPERER 

I  am  here. 

THE  MAN 

I  see  thee  not :  where  art  thou  ? 

THE    WHISPERER 

I  am  in  the  rhythm  of  the  whirling  wheels 
and  the  falling  hoofs,  in  the  noise  of  innu- 
merous    feet,    and    the    murmur    of    myriad 

184 


The  Whisperer 

breaths.  The  sparrows  flicker  in  the  light  of 
my  footfall,  and  the  high  sunlight  is  in  my 
eyes. 

THE   MAN 

What   would'st  thou? 

THE    WHISPERER 

I  have  no  will,  O   falling  wave.     It  is  I 
who  say:  what  wouldst  thou? 

THE   MAN 

Where  am  I? 

THE   WHISPERER 

In  a  vast  maelstrom  in  a  vaster  sea. 

THE    MAN 

Am  I  then  a  lost  wave? 

THE   WHISPERER 

A  rising  and  a  falling  wave. 

THE   MAN 

[Reiterating  below  his  breath.']     A  rising 
and  a  falling  wave! 

THE   WHISPERER 

A  falling  and  a  rising  wave. 

THE   MAN 

Art  thou  a  spirit? 

[Silence.] 

THE   MAN 

What  art  thou? 

[Silence.] 

THE   MAN 

[Turning  desperately  to  an  old  man  at  his 
side.]     It  is  thou !     Speak,  speak ! 

185 


William  Sharp 

[The  old  man  looks  at  him  fearfully,  shakes 
off  his  grasp,  and  hurries  onward.] 

THE   WHISPERER 

I  am  here. 

THE   MAN 

If  I  am  of  those  for  whom  you  watch  tell 
me  to  what  end  ? 

THE   WHISPERER 

That,  if  thou  wilt,  when  thou  art  ready, 
thou  may'st  hear  and  see. 

THE   MAN 

Thus  be  it.     I  would  hear,  and  see. 

[Even  as  he  speaks,  the  Man  sees  the  crowd 
in  the  street  become  trebled :  and  in  his 
ears  is  a  noise  of  crying  and  lamentation, 
with  vague  remote  shouts  of  victory  and 
defiance.  Like  unto  the  innumerable 
falling  of  the  waves  upon  the  sea  is  the 
dim,  confused  rumour  of  the  strife  of 
human  passions,  embodied  in  shadowy 
shapes,  with  wild  eyes  of  hope,  dread, 
wrath,  horror,  and  dismay.  Beside  each 
man  or  woman  moves  two  others,  the 
phantom  of  the  soul  and  the  phantom  of 
the  body.  And  ever  the  phantom  of  the 
soul,  with  its  eyes  of  morning  glory, 
looks  through  the  veil  of  flesh  into  its 
fellow,  now  dulled  or  sleeping,  now 
weary  or  heedless,  now  listening  intently, 
now  alive  and  eager.  And  ever  the  phan- 
tom of  the  body  moves  a  little  in  ad- 
vance of  its  fellow,  and  weaves  a  glamour 

.       186 


The  Whisperer 

before  the  eyes,  and  sings  a  wildering 
song  into  the  ears,  and  laughs  low  be- 
cause the  flames  of  fire  that  are  its  feet 
seem  like  roses,  and  the  dust  and  ashes 
upon  its  head  are  as  fragrant  lilies,  and 
the  dropping  decays  wherewith  it  is  clad 
wave  like  green  branches  that  lure  to  the 
woodland.] 

THE   MAN 

[Shuddering.']  Everywhere  the  Evil  One 
has  his  triumph. 

THE   WHISPERER 

There  is  no  Evil  One. 

THE   MAN 

But  he  —  the  phantom  of  the  body,  who 
weaves  his  charm  of  the  grave  and  his  rune 
of  corruption  — 

THE   WHISPERER 

Look! 

[And  the  Man,  looking,  sees  only  one  figure 
moving  beside  each  human  being  of  all 
the   hurrying   myriad.] 

THE   MAN 

Who  —  who  is  it? 

THE   WHISPERER 

It  is  the  phantom  of  the  man  or  of  the 
woman. 

THE   MAN 

Are  they,  then,  one:  the  phantom  of  the 
soul  and  the  phantom  of  the  body? 

i87 


William  Sharp 

THE   WHISPERER 

They  are  one. 

THE   MAN 

[Terrified.]     And  thou? 


[Silence.] 


II 

[Under  a  chestnut  tree,  on  a  grassy  place, 
near  a  cottage,  in  the  remote  country. 
There  is  no  moon,  but  its  radiance  comes 
diffused  through  soft,  filmy  clouds.  In 
the  darkness,  the  Man  stands,  listening 
intently.] 

THE  MAN 
I  am  not  alone? 

[Silence.] 

THE   MAN 

I  know  thou  art  nigh.     It  is  on  the  wind, 
on  the  leaves,  in  the  grass. 

THE   WHISPERER 

I  am  here. 

THE   MAN 

The  time  is  come.     Tell  me  that  which  thou 
art  —  show  me  that  which  thou  art. 

THE   WHISPERER 

Look! 

[And  the  Man,  looking,  beholds  for  the  first 
time  the  flowing  of  the  wind.  As  he 
looks,  the  heavens  open,  and  the  flowing 
of  the  wind  is  from  the  starry  depths, 
and  is  filled  with  a  myriad  myriad  aerial 


The  Whisperer 

beings, —  souls    coming    and    going,    fair 
spirits,  shadows  and  shapes  innumerable, 
strange  and  sometimes  terrible.] 
THE   MAN 

[Awestruck.]     What  are  thou? 

THE    WHISPERER 

I  am  the  rhythm  of  the  sap  in  the  grass  and 
the  trees,  of  the  blood  in  all  living  things,  of 
the  running  of  waters,  of  the  falling  of  dews 
and  rains,  of  the  equipoise  of  oceans,  of  the 
four  winds  of  the  world,  of  the  vast  swing 
of  the  Earth. 

THE   MAN 

Thou  art  the  God  of  this  world !  Thou  art 
God!     Lo,  I  worship  thee! 

THE   WHISPERER 

Behold! 

[And  the  Man,  looking,  beholds  through  the 
mist  of  stars  a  whirling  grain  of  sand, 
falling  forever  through  the  waste  eternity 
of  Oblivion.] 

THE   WHISPERER 

That  whirling  grain  of  dust  is  the  World  of 
which  thou  hast  spoken. 

THE   MAN 

Thou  art  no  other  than  God,  the  God  whom 
all  races  have  worshipped  since  Time  was ! 

THE   WHISPERER 

Behold! 

[And  the   Man,  looking,  beholds   amid  the 

189 


William  Sharp 

depths  of  the  stars  a  vast  Shape,  seated 
on  a  golden  sun  among  the  Pleiades,  who 
swings  forever,  as  a  lamp  of  incense,  the 
Seven  Stars,  and  with  them  all  the  stars 
and  planets  and  suns  and  moons  of  the 
universe:  and  as  he  swings  this  Lamp  of 
Incense,  he  sings  a  song  of  praise  and 
worship  to  the  Most  High.] 

THE    WHISPERER 

Behold,  thou  hast  seen  thy  God,  and  the 

God  whom  all  the  races  of  the  world  have 

worshipped  since  time  was.     And  now,  turn 

thine  eyes  upon  the  glory  of  Him  yet  again. 

[And    the    Man,    looking,    beholds    another 

grain  of  sand  whirling  forever  through 

the  waste  infinities  of  Oblivion.] 

THE   WHISPERER 

That  whirling  grain  of  sand  is  the  vast  uni- 
verse of  the  sun  and  moon  and  stars  that  thou 
knowest,  and  all  the  suns  and  planets  and 
stars  eye  hath  seen  or  the  brain  conceived. 

THE  MAN 

[Scarce   whispering.]     And   God? 

THE   WHISPERER 

Thou  canst  not  see  the  invisible  speck  that 
was  His  throne.  Behold  the  grain  of  sand 
that  was  His  universe. 

THE   MAN 

Who  art  thou  ? 

[Silence.] 
190 


The  Whisperer 

THE  MAN 

[In  his  soul.]     Is  there  nought  beyond? 

THE   WHISPERER 

Verily :  the  nearer  foam  of  the  Sea  of  Life. 

THE   MAN 

Doth  God  live? 

THE  WHISPERER 

Beyond  the  extreme  horizon  of  the  Sea  of 
Life,  Gods  and  Powers  and  Dominions  bow 
down  before  the  Most  High. 

THE   MAN 

And  then? 

THE   WHISPERER 

The  Sea  of  Life  begins. 

THE   MAN 

[Despairingly.]  Beyond  all  thoughts  to 
find  Him  —  all  prayer  to  reach  Him  ! 

THE   WHISPERER 

Nay,  He  is  here. 

[The   Man,   bewildered,   stares  around   him 
as  the  moon  sails  from  out  the  last  films 
of  mist.     In  his  hand  is  a  blade  of  grass, 
that  he  had  not  plucked.] 
THE   MAN 

[Vaguely  repeating.]     Nay,  He  is  here! 

THE   WHISPERER 

I  am  thine  to  serve,  O  spirit  that  dieth  not. 

THE   MAN 

Who  art  thou? 

[Silence.] 
191 


William  Sharp 

And  I  remain  thus,  dreaming,  listening  to 
that  interminable  dialogue  between  the  heart 
that  desires  and  the  reason  that  reprehends, 
going  from  hypothesis  to  hypothesis,  like  a 
blind  bird  casting  itself  incessantly  against 
the  four  walls  of  its  cage. 

LlRRfiM&DIABLE. 


192 


PART  II 

Madge  o'  the  Pool 
The  Gypsy  Christ 
The  Lady  in  Hosea 


Madge  o'  the  Pool 


MADGE  O'  THE  POOL 

A  THAMES  ETCHING 

i 
When  the  January  fog  hangs  heavy  upon 
London  it  comes  down  upon  the  Pool  as 
though  it  were  sluiced  there  like  a  drain,  or 
as  a  mass  of  garbage  shot  over  a  declivity 
in  a  waste  place.  The  Pool  is  not  a  lovely 
spot  in  winter,  though  it  has  a  beauty  of  its 
own  on  the  rare  days  when  the  sun  shines  in 
an  unclouded  frosty  sky,  or  when  a  north- 
wester comes  down  from  the  distant  heights 
of  Highgate  and  Hampstead,  and  slaps  the 
incoming  tide  with  short  splashes  of  waves 
washed  up  by  the  downward  current,  till  the 
whole  reach  of  the  Thames  thereabouts  is  a 
jumble  of  blue  and  white  and  of  gleaming  if 
dirty  greys  and  greens.  On  midwinter 
nights,  too,  when  the  moon  has  swung  up  out 
of  the  smoke,  like  a  huge  fire-balloon  adrift 
from  the  Lambeth  furnaces,  and  when  the 
stars  glint  like  javelin  points,  there  is  some- 
thing worth  seeing  down  there,  where  the 
forest  of  masts  rises  sheer  and  black,  and 
where  there  is  a  constant  cross-flash  of  red 

197 


William  Sharp 

and  green  rays  from  innumerable  bow  lamps 
and  stern  windows  and  tipsy  lanterns  trailed 
awry  through  the  rigging.  A  mile  up- 
stream, and  it  is  wonderful  what  stillness  pre- 
vails. For  ever,  of  course,  the  dull  roar  of 
omnibuses  and  cabs  on  the  bridges,  the 
muffled  scraping  sound  of  hundreds  of 
persons  moving  rapidly  afoot:  from  the 
banks,  the  tumult  of  indiscriminate  voices 
and  sounds  of  all  kinds  round  and  beyond 
the  crank-crank  of  the  cranes  on  the  grain- 
wharves  and  the  bashing  of  the  brick  and  coal 
barges  against  the  wooden  piers.  But  upon 
the  interspaces  of  the  river,  what  compara- 
tive silence!  A  disjointed  passenger-boat, 
with  spelican  funnel  darting  back  to  the 
perpendicular,  shoots  from  under  a  bridge, 
and  paddles  swiftly  down-stream  like  a 
frightened  duck;  a  few  moments,  and  it  is 
out  of  sight,  swallowed  in  the  haze,  or  swung 
round  a  bend.  A  trio  of  barges,  chained  to 
each  other  like  galley-slaves,  passes  up- 
stream, drawn  by  what  looks  like  a  huge  blue- 
bottle-fly. The  bluebottle  is  a  tug-boat,  a 
"  barge-bug "  in  river  parlance ;  and  as  it 
flaps  the  water  with  a  swift  spanking  smash 
of  its  screw,  the  current  is  churned  into  a 
yeast  of  foam  that  is  like  snow  against  the 
bows   of  the   first  barge,   and  thin  as   dirty 

198 


Madge  o'  the  Pool:  a  Thames  Etching 

steam  when  washed  from  the  sternmost  into 
a  narrow  vanishing  wake.  As  likely  as  not, 
the  bargees  are  silent,  pipely  contemplative, 
taciturn  in  view  of  always  imminent  need  for 
palaver  of  a  kind  almost  unique  in  the  scope 
and  vigour  of  its  blasphemy.  Perhaps,  how- 
ever, the  boy  at  the  caboose  forward  whistles 
the  tune  of  "  O  were  I  sodger  gay,"  or  that 
perennial  favourite  which  recounts  the  deeds 
of  Jack  Do  and  Bob  Didn't  in  the  too  familiar 
groves  of  Pentonville;  or  the  seedy  man  in 
shirt-sleeves,  who  walks  the  starboard  plank 
with  a  pole  and  thinks  he  is  busy,  may  yell 
a  ragged  joke  to  a  comrade  similarly  em- 
ployed on  one  of  the  other  barges.  Or 
even,  and  indeed  very  probably,  the  heavily 
cravated,  dogskin-capped  helmsman  may  sud- 
denly be  moved  to  a  hoarse  volley  of  words 
so  saturated,  dominated,  upheld,  overborne 
by  the  epithet  "bloody,,,  that  the  "coal- 
bunker  "  might  almost  be  taken  for  a  slaugh- 
ter-house escaping  in  disguise.  But  even  the 
barges  slump  up-stream  out  of  sight  before 
long:  and  then,  how  quiet  the  river  is  for  a 
space!  The  wharf-rats  are  so  fat  that  they 
make  a  stone-like  splash  when  they  plunge 
through  the  grain-dollops;  but  only  a  prac- 
tised ear  could  recognise  the  sound  in  the 
rude   wash   of  the   current,   or   "  spot "   the 

199 


William  Sharp 

shrill  squeaks,  as  of  a  drowning  and  despair- 
ing penny-whistle,  when  a  batch  of  these 
"  Thames-chickens  "  scurries  in  sudden  flight 
down  a  granary-slide  and  goes  flop  into  the 
quagmires  of  mud  left  uncovered  by  the  ebb. 
But  at  the  Pool  there  is  never  complete  si- 
lence. Even  if  there  be  no  wind,  the  curses 
of  the  Poolites  (in  at  least  twenty  varieties 
of  human  lingo)  would  cause  enough  current 
of  air  to  crease  the  river's  dirty  skin  here 
and  there  into  a  grim  smile. 

Like  the  rest  of  the  world,  the  Pool  has  its 
sociable  seasons.  Broadly  there  are  two. 
The  shorter  might  be  called  that  of  the  con- 
certina and  open-air  "  flings  " ;  the  longer  that 
of  the  riverside  singing-dens  and  dancing- 
saloons.  But  the  regular  population  has  not 
much  time  for  systematic  gaiety,  not  even  in 
the  long  summer  nights:  a  bad  season,  in 
fact,  when  there  is  little  business  to  be  done 
and  too  much  light  to  do  it  in.  The  stranger 
visiting  the  neighbourhood  —  that  is  to  say, 
the  stranger  who  carries  in  his  aspect  too 
obvious  credentials  as  to  his  respectability  — 
might  laugh  at  the  idea  of  there  being  a  Pool 
population  at  all,  that  is,  of  a  permanent  kind. 
He  will  find  the  saloons  in  the  locality 
haunted  by  a  motley  gathering,  where  as  a 
iule  the  ladies  show  no  insular  partiality  in 

200 


Madge  o'  the  Pool:  a  Thames  Etching 

their  acceptance  of  partners,  whether  in  the 
dancing-shops  or  other  dens  of  more  or  less 
repute;  and  where,  without  having  had  the 
advantages  of  an  excellent  training  at  a 
young  ladies'  academy,  they  seem  quite  at 
ease  with  gentlemen  of  foreign  parts,  coloured 
or  otherwise,  who  talk  no  lingo  but  their 
own.  It  is,  in  fact,  a  cosmopolitan  society. 
The  civilisation  of  the  West  and  the  wisdom 
of  the  East  meet  constantly  in  the  inter- 
course of  the  Irish  dock-labourer  and  the 
Chinese  "  grubber  " ;  and  the  coolie  or  Malay 
is  as  much  at  home  as  the  Dutchman  or 
Portugee. 

There  is  a  clan  of  which  almost  nothing  is 
known.  It  is  the  people  of  the  Pool.  Ask 
the  river-police,  and  they  will  tell  you  some- 
thing of  the  "  water-rats,"  though  if  your 
informant  be  candid  he  will  add  that  he  can't 
tell  you  much.  Many  unfortunate  travellers 
have  met  members  of  the  fraternity;  for  one 
of  their  favourite  and  most  reputable  pur- 
suits is  the  ferrying  at  exorbitant  prices  (the 
inevitable  purloining  skilfully  carried  on  at  a 
certain  stage  is  not  charged  for)  of  would-be 
voyagers  by  the  Hamburg  and  Baltic  steam- 
ers, when,  on  account  of  the  tide,  embarka- 
tion has  to  take  place  at  midstream.  The 
Poolites    haunt    Irongate    and    Horsleydown 

201 


William  Sharp 

stairs,  and  are  given  to  resenting  active  in- 
terest in  their  vested  rights.  But  their  chief 
means  of  life  is  otherwise  obtained.  They 
are  the  vermin  of  the  Thames,  and  they  scour 
its  surface  by  night  with  irreproachable  in- 
dustry and  thoroughness.  It  would  not  be 
easy  to  describe  what  they  do,  particularly 
under  cover  of  mist  or  fog;  it  is  simplest  to 
say  that  they  will  do  anything,  except  speak  to 
a  "  cat "  or  refuse  a  drink.  A  "  cat,"  it  may 
be  observed,  is  the  name  applied  to  a  mem- 
ber of  the  river  police ;  and  as  the  "  cats  " 
are  always  worrying,  even  when  not  directly 
chasing  the  Poolites,  or  "  rats,"  the  result  is 
incompatability  of  temper. 

Many  of  the  Poolites  haunt  holes  and  cor- 
ners in  the  neighbourhood  of  Horsleydown 
stairs.  Some  have  their  lair  in  old  boats,  or 
among  rotten  sheds  or  wood-piles;  others 
are  as  homeless,  and  as  unpleasant  and  as 
fierce,  as  dung-beetles.  Among  them  there 
are  "  rats  "  of  either  sex  who  are  practically 
never  ashore,  whose  knowledge  of  London  is 
confined  to  familiarity  with  the  grim  river 
frontages,  and  whose  sole  concern  in  con- 
nection with  "  the  great  name  of  England  " 
is  a  chronic  uneasiness  about  her  might  and 
majesty  in  the  guise  of  the  police. 

A  score  or  so  of  Poolites  are  marked  men. 

202 


Madge  o*  the  Pool:  a  Thames  Etching 

That  is  to  say,  either  through  length  of  ex- 
perience in  loafing  and  vagabondage,  or  ow- 
ing to  proved  crime,  their  names  are  known 
to  the  "  cats,"  and  their  persons  occasionally 
wanted.  An  invincible  modesty  character- 
ises the  Poolite.  He  sees  no  distinction  in 
public  arrest,  and  the  halo  of  a  conviction 
does  not  allure  him.  In  a  word,  he  is  a 
water-rat,  and  wishes  to  remain  one. 

The  fact  that  he  was  so  well  known,  and 
could  easily  be  found,  was  a  chronic  sore  in 
the  drink-besotted  mind  of  Dick  Robins.  He 
loathed  this  distinction,  and  could  he  have 
gained  prolonged  credit  at  any  other  gin-shop 
than  that  of  his  brother  Bill  he  would  have 
shifted  his  quarters.  The  fact  that,  as  a 
younger  man,  twenty  years  earlier,  when  he 
was  about  thirty,  he  had  thrice  served  his 
term  in  jail,  may  have  prejudiced  him  against 
any  radical  change  in  his  way  of  life.  On 
the  second  occasion  he  had  appropriated  in 
too  conspicuous  a  fashion  the  contents  of  a 
pocket,  that  of  the  wife  of  a  sea-captain  with 
whom  he  had  found  it  difficult  to  come  to  an 
exorbitant  arrangement;  and  for  this  very 
natural  action  he  was  condemned  to  three 
years'  imprisonment,  with  atrocious  and  ob- 
jectionable   hard    labour.     He    would    have 

203 


William  Sharp 

been  embittered  against  the  law  to  the  end  of 
his  days,  if  he  had  not  been  so  far  mollified 
by  the  light  sentence  on  his  third  "  go,"  one  of 
six  weeks, —  thus  light,  as  the  charge  was 
only  of  having  brutally  kicked  his  wife  up 
and  down  a  barge  and  then  into  the 
half-frozen  Thames.  As  she  died  of  rheu- 
matic fever,  Mr.  Robins  could  not  legally,  of 
course,  be  held  accountable.  For  twenty 
years  or  more  Dick  Robins  had  found  gin  so 
pleasing  a  mistress  that  he  had  been  unable 
to  give  any  but  the  most  nominal  attention  — 
it  would  be  absurd  to  say  to  the  education  — 
to  the  growth  of  his  daughter.  Her  name 
was  "  girl  " :  that  is,  his  name  for  her.  Bap- 
tized Margaret,  she  was  commonly  called 
Madge.  He  realised  that  she  was  a  girl,  and 
comely,  on'  account  of  various  ideas  of  his 
own,  and  suggestions  from  outside,  all  on 
the  same  level  of  profound  depravity.  He 
first  regarded  her  as  a  woman  when,  having 
lost  eleven  and  fourpence  at  Wapping-euchre 
to  Ned  Bull,  that  gentleman  generously  of- 
fered to  overlook  the  debt,  and  to  spend  the 
remaining  eight  and  eightpence  of  the  broken 
quid  in  two  bottles  of  "  Jamaicy "  and  four 
goes  of  "  Aunt  Maria,"  conditionally  on  re- 
ceipt of  Madge  as  the  legal  Mrs.  Bull.  The 
offer  would  have  been  accepted  right  off,  but 

204 


Madge  o'  the  Pool:  a  Thames  Etching 

Mr.  Robins  found  to  his  chagrin  that  the  bot- 
tles of  rum  and  goes  of  proof-gin  would  not 
be  consumable  till  the  marriage  festival. 

Madge  was  a  dark,  handsome  girl,  tall, 
well-made  though  too  thin,  somewhat  slat- 
ternly in  dress,  though  generally  with  a  clean 
face,  and,  stranger  to  say,  with  fairly  clean 
hands.  Neither  she  nor  any  one  else  would 
have  dreamed  of  the  application  to  her  of 
the  term  "  beautiful."  Only  those  who 
caught  a  glimpse  of  her  as  she  stood  in  a 
statuesque  pose,  pole  in  hand,  on  some  hay 
barge  or  hoy  in  ballast,  or  as  she  sculled  up 
stream  or  down,  deft  as  a  duck  in  the  fen- 
tangle,  noticed  the  beauty  of  her  thick-clus- 
tered, ample  hair,  and  mayhap  the  splendour 
of  her  large,  dark,  velvety  eyes.  Madge 
knew  very  little  of  shore-life,  even  that  of 
the  Horsleydown  neighbourhood,  and  noth- 
ing at  all  of  the  larger  life  of  that  vast  me- 
tropolis which  represented  the  world  to  her: 
though  she  was  vaguely  aware  that  beyond 
the  Isle  of  Dogs  the  Thames  widened  to  that 
sea  which  bore  the  foreign  ships  which  came 
to  London,  and  brought  so  many  mariners 
of  divers  nationalities,  all  equally  eager  for 
two  things,  strong  drink  and  purchasable 
women.  When  ashore,  she  was  generally  at 
the  house  of  her  uncle  Bill  the  publican,  or, 

205 


William  Sharp 

more  often,  at  that  of  her  sister-in-law,  Nell 
Robins.  For  all  her  rough  life,  her  rude 
imaginings,  uncouth  surroundings,  her  igno- 
rance of  refinement  in  speech  or  manner, 
Madge  was  pure  of  heart,  honourable  in  all 
her  intimate  dealings,  and  as  upright  gen- 
erally as  she  had  any  call  to  be. 

Dick  Robins  was  coarse  and  brutal  enough 
in  his  talk  when  she  had  refused  to  desert 
the  river-life  of  the  Pool  in  order  to  act  as 
barmaid  at  her  uncle's  public-house,  the 
"  Jolly  Rovers."  With  all  her  experience  — 
and  she  could  have  given  points  to  most  spec- 
ialists in  blasphemy  —  she  learned  the  full  vo- 
cabulary of  utter  degradation  when  she  told 
her  father  that  "  Gawd  hisself  couldn't  swop 
her  to  that  beast,  Ned  Bull,  without  her  will, 
which  would  never  be  till  she  was  drownded, 
and  not  then." 

The  drink-sodden  brute  went  so  far,  even 
before  he  violently  struck  her  again  and  again, 
that,  though  he  confirmed  her  in  her  abhor- 
rence of  the  proposed  union,  he  was  the  first 
great  reforming  force  in  her  life.  After  that, 
she  realised,  she  might  "  dry  up."  Foulness  of 
speech  could  go  no  further.  A  disgust  of  it 
all  came  upon  the  girl.  She  prayed  an  un- 
wonted prayer  to  that  mysterious  abstraction 
God,  whose  name  she  heard  as  often  as  that 

206 


Madge  o'  the  Pool:  a  Thames  Etching 

of  the  police,  that  she  might  have  strength  to 
refrain  from  all  ugly  horrors  of  speech,  ex- 
cept, of  course,  such  acknowledged  ornaments 
of  conversation  as  "  bloody  "  and  "  damn." 

Yet  no,  not  quite  the  first,  if  the  most  im- 
mediate, reforming  influence.  She  had  already 
incurred  the  wrath  and  contempt  of  the  Hors- 
leydown  and  Irongate  mudswipes,  by  her  at- 
titude towards  Jim  Shaw,  a  despised  and 
hated  "  cat,"  a  river  policeman.  He  had  saved 
her  from  drowning,  on  an  occasion  when  the 
most  obvious  help  lay  with  her  own  people, 
not  one  of  whom,  boy  or  man,  had  bestirred 
himself.  "  Water-rat "  though  she  was,  and 
acknowledged  foe  as  was  every  "cat,"  she 
was  so  little  at  one  with  her  kindred  as  to  be 
able  to  feel  grateful  towards  her  saviour,  par- 
ticularly as  he  was  so  good-looking  a  deliverer, 
and  possessed,  in  her  eyes,  a  manner  of  ideal 
grace  and  dignity. 

It  was  on  a  dirty,  foggy,  December  after- 
noon that  Dick  Robins  had  tried,  through  a 
flood  of  blasphemy  and  obscenity,  to  drift  his 
meaning  alongside  the  wharf  of  the  girl's 
mind.  When  he  found  that  she  would  have 
none  of  it,  was  a  rebel  outright,  he  followed 
curses  with  blows,  till  at  last,  wild  with  rage 
and  pain,  Madge  rushed  from  the  low  tavern 
whither  her  father  had  inveigled  her.     Nat- 

207 


William  Sharp 

urally  she  made  straight  for  the  river.  Hav- 
ing sprung  into  a  dingy,  she  sculled  rapidly 
amid-stream.  She  had  no  idea  what  she  was 
going  to  do.  To  get  quite  away  from  that 
horrible  street,  from  that  drink-den,  from  that 
human  beast  who  called  himself  her  father  — 
that  was  her  one  overmastering  wish. 

An  unpleasant  fate  might  easily  have  been 
hers  that  night,  had  she  not  fortunately  broken 
an  oar.  The  swing  of  the  current  caught  the 
boat,  and  in  a  moment  she  was  broadside  on. 
A  wood-barge  and  a  collier  were  coming  down, 
and  a  large  steamer  forging  up-stream,  and 
there  she  jobbled  helplessly,  right  in  their  way, 
and  almost  certain  to  be  crushed  or  swamped. 
All  the  girl's  usual  resourcefulness  suddenly 
left  her.  She  realised  that  she  was  done  for, 
a  thought  at  which  not  she  only  but  her  youth 
instinctively  rebelled. 

Suddenly,  slump  —  slump  —  splash  —  came 
the  wood-barge  almost  upon  her.  She  saw  a 
pole  thrust  forward  to  stave  the  dingy  off  from 
too  violent  a  concussion ;  and  the  next  moment 
some  one  was  over  the  low  side  and  in  the 
boat  beside  her.  She  recognised  Jim  Shaw, 
as  in  a  dream. 

"  Here,  I'll  pull  you  right,"  he  said  roughly ; 
"  hand  me  that  oar."  While  sculling  from 
the  stern-rollock,  he  told  her  that  he  had  been 

208 


Madge  o'  the  Pool:  a  Thames  Etching 

up-stream  on  duty,  and  had  been  given 
a  lift  down  again  by  his  friend,  the 
owner  of  the  barge  "  Pride  of  Wapping  " ; 
that  he  had  seen  her  predicament,  and,  as  the 
distance  narrowed,  recognised  her  face;  and 
that  "  there   he  was." 

Madge  thanked  him  earnestly,  and  re- 
marked, incidently,  that  "  it  was  a  bloody  near 
squeak."  She  saw  him  look  at  her,  and 
glanced  back  with  a  new,  vague  apprehension. 

"  You're  a  pretty  girl,  Madge,  and  a  good 
girl,  I  believe, —  too  good  to  use  that  rot. 
Wy,  blast  me,  if  I  'eard  a  sister  o'  mine  use 
that  word  '  bloody '  so  free  permiskuous,  I'd 
let  her  know  —  damme  if  I  wouldn't !  " 

"Have  you  a  sister,  Mr. —  Mr. —  Shaw?" 
asked  Madge  curiously,  and  not  in  the  least 
offended. 

"  No,  nor  no  mother,  neither ;  but  I  had 
'em.  Look  here,  Madge,  I'm  a  lonely  chap, 
an'  I've  took  a  fancy  to  you  —  did  that  time  I 
hauled  ye  out  o'  the  Pool  —  and  I'll  tell  you 
wot:  you  cut  old  Robins  and  all  that  gang 
and  be  my  gal !  " 

Madge  turned  her  great  eyes  upon  him.  He 
thought  she  was  scornful,  or  mayhap  only 
reckoning  up  the  actual  and  possible  advan- 
tages of  the  connection.  She,  for  her  part, 
was  taken  aback  by  what  seemed  to  her  his 

209 


William  Sharp 

splendid  chivalry  and  the  refined  charm  of  his 
address. 

"  Now  then,  lass,  say  yes  or  no,  for  we'll  be 
along  oJ  the  Irongate  in  a  jiffy,  an'  some  o' 
your  lot's  bound  to  be  there." 

"  I'll  be  your  gal,  Jim  Shaw,"  was  all  she 
said,  in  a  low  voice. 

Shaw  thereupon  gave  the  oar  a  twist,  and 
kept  the  boat  mid-stream  for  a  hundred  yards 
or  so  below  Irongate  wharf.  When  nearly 
opposite  a  small  floating  quay  marked  No.  9, 
he  sculled  alongside.  Ten  minutes  later  he 
had  obtained  leave  of  absence  for  the  night, 
and  then  he  and  Madge  went  off  together  to 
hunt  for  lodgings. 

For  the  next  few  days  Madge  was  fairly 
happy.  She  would  have  been  quite  happy  if 
she  and  Jim  could  have  seen  much  of  each 
other;  but  it  was  a  busy  time  with  the  river 
police,  and  he  could  not  get  away  at  night. 
He  returned  to  their  room  between  six  and 
eight  in  the  morning,  but  had  to  sleep  till  well 
after  midday;  and  as  he  had  to  be  on  duty 
again  by  six,  sometimes  earlier,  they  had  not 
much  time  for  going  anywhere  together.  But, 
in  truth,  Madge  cared  little  for  the  entertain- 
ments they  did  go  to.  The  painted,  tawdry 
women  offended  her  in  a  way  they  had  never 
done  before;  the  coarse  jokes  of  the  men  did 

210 


Madge  o'  the  Pool:  a  Thames  Etching 

not  strike  her  as  funny.  She  was  dimly  con- 
scious of  a  great  change  in  herself.  Physi- 
cally and  mentally  she  was  another  woman 
after  that  first  night  alone  with  Jim.  She 
was  his  "gal,"  and  would  be  the  mother  of 
their  "  kid  "  if  she  had  one ;  but  it  was  not 
the  obvious  in  wifehood  or  motherhood  that 
took  possession  of  her  dormant  imagination, 
but  something  mysterious,  awful,  even  sacred. 
The  outward  sign  of  this  spiritual  revolu- 
tion, this  new,  solemnising,  exquisite  obses- 
sion, was  a  complete  cessation  from  even  such 
customary  flowers  of  speech  as  those  above 
alluded  to ;  and,  later,  a  more  scrupulous  tidi- 
ness. What  joy  it  was  when  Jim  told  her  one 
morning  that  he  was  to  have  Boxing-day  as 
a  complete  holiday!  At  last  the  heavens 
seemed  opened.  He  proposed  all  manner  of 
wild  and  extravagant  trips:  a  visit  to  the  in- 
side of  St.  Paul's  or  the  Tower,  so  familiar 
externally  to  both  —  a  visit  to  be  followed 
by  an  omnibus-trip  through  the  great  city  to 
that  home  of  splendour,  Madame  Tussaud's, 
or  even  to  the  Zoological  Gardens,  the  monkey- 
house  in  which  had  made  on  Jim's  boyhood- 
mind  an  indelible  impression  of  excruciating 
humour.  The  wildest  suggestion  of  all  was 
a  triple  glory :  the  Tower  and  St.  Paul's,  then 
far   away   to   the   gorgeous   delights   of   the 

211 


William  Sharp 

Crystal  Palace,  and  at  night  to  the  Pantomime 
at  Drury  Lane. 

But  in  great  happiness  the  mind  sometimes 
resents  superfluity  of  joys.  In  deep  love,  as 
in  deep  water,  says  a  great  writer,  there  is  a 
gloom.  The  gloom,  in  the  instance  of  Madge, 
arose  from  her  profound  weariness  of  the 
streets  and  the  house-life,  her  overmastering 
longing  for  the  river.  If  an  angel  had  of- 
fered her  a  boon,  she  would  have  fulfilled  a 
passionate  dream  by  becoming  a  female  mem- 
ber of  the  river  police,  and  being  ranked  as 
Jim  Shaw's  mate. 

When  Jim  realised  what  was  in  the  girl's 
mind  and  heart,  he  good-naturedly,  though 
not  without  a  sigh,  gave  up  his  projects,  and 
bestirred  himself  to  please  Madge.  One  sug- 
gestion he  did  make:  that  they  should  get 
"  spliced  " ;  but  Madge  thought  this  a  waste 
of  time,  money,  and  even  welfare;  for  she 
vaguely  realised  that  she  had,  and  probably 
would  continue  to  have,  more  hold  over  Jim 
as  her  "  man "  than  as  her  legal  husband. 
"  It  might  be  better,"  he  remarked  once  medi- 
tatively. 

"  But  why  ?  don't  I  love  you  ?  "  was  Madge's 
naive  and  unanswerable  reply. 

By  Christmas  Day  all  was  arranged.  Jim 
knew  the  captain  of  a  river  steamer  who  had 

212 


Madge  o"  the  Pool:  a  Thames  Etching 

promised  to  take  them  as  far  as  Kew.  Thence 
they  were  to  go  by  rail  to  Windsor,  to  show 
Madge  those  two  marvels,  where  the  Queen 
lived,  and  "  the  real  country  " ;  then  they  were 
to  leave  in  time  to  catch  the  ebb-tide  below 
Richmond,  and  go  down-stream  on  a  friend's 
hoy,  the  Dancing  Mary,  all  the  way  to  Grave- 
send.  Madge  would  thus  see  the  country  and 
the  ocean  in  one  day,  and  yet  all  the  time  be 
on  the  river.  The  project  was  a  mental  in- 
toxication to  her.  She  was  in  a  dream  by 
day,  a  fever  by  night.  Jim  laughingly  told 
her  that  he  would  be  blowed  if  he  would  ask 
for  another  holiday  soon. 

A  memorable  day,  indeed,  it  proved. 
Madge's  education  received  an  almost  peril- 
ously rapid  stimulus.  Long  before  dusk  she 
had  won  for  herself,  besides  a  little  rapture, 
a  new  pain  that  would  henceforth  be  a  con- 
stant ally,  and  perhaps  a  tyrant. 

The  beauty  even  of  the  winter  riverscape 
affected  her  painfully.  That  great  stillness, 
that  indescribable  calm,  that  white  peace,  that 
stainless  purity  of  the  snowy  vicinage  of  the 
Thames  near  Windsor,  was  an  overwhelming 
reproach  upon  life  as  she  knew  it,  and  upon 
herself.  She  was  conscious  of  three  emo- 
tions: horror  of  the  past,  gratitude  to  Jim, 
her  saviour  and  revealer,  and  a  dumb  sense 

213 


William  Sharp 

of  the  glory  of  life  as  it  might  be.  But  at 
first  she  was  simply  overcome.  If  she  had 
not  feared  how  Jim  would  take  such  folly, 
she  would  have  screamed,  if  for  nothing  else 
than  to  break  the  silence.  He  had  his  pipe, 
merciful  boon  for  the  stagnant  spirit  and  the 
inactive  mind;  she  had  nothing  to  distract 
her  outer  from  her  inner  self,  nothing  to  ease 
her  from  the  dull  perplexity  and  pain  of  that 
incessant  if  almost  inarticulate  soul-summons 
of  which  she  was  dimly  conscious.  More 
than  once,  even,  a  great  home-sickness  came 
upon  her;  a  bodily  nostalgia  for  that  dirty, 
congested,  often  hideous,  always  squalid  life, 
to  which  she  had  been  born,  and  in  which 
she  had  been  bred.  Once,  at  a  lowly  spot, 
where  the  river  curved  through  snow-clad 
meadows,  with  an  austere  but  exquisite 
beauty,  she  was  conscious  of  a  certain  relief 
when  she  and  her  fellow-passengers  were  col- 
lectively swept  by  a  volcanic  lava-flood  of 
abuse  from  an  infuriated  bargee,  horrible 
to  most  ears  that  heard,  but  to  her  com- 
ing as  inland  odours  to  tired  seamen,  subtly 
welcome  as  it  was  in  its  appealing  home- 
sound. 

She  was  affected  as  profoundly,  if  not  so 
acutely,  by  the  voyage  down  the  lower  reaches 
of  the  Thames  beyond  the  Pool.     Windsor 

214 


Madge  oy  the  Pool:  a  Thames  Etching 

itself  had  not  greatly  impressed  her.  It  was 
too  remotely  grand. 

When,  late  that  night,  the  hoy  anchored  off 
Gravesend,  and  through  the  darkness  came  up 
a  moan,  a  sigh,  a  tumult  as  of  muffled  steps 
and  stifled  whispers,  the  voice  of  the  sea, 
Madge,  almost  for  the  first  time  in  her  life, 
was  troubled  by  the  thought  of  death.  The 
night  was  dark,  without  moon,  and  the  stars 
were  obscured  by  drifted  smoke  and  opaque 
films  of  mist.  An  easterly  wind  worried  the 
waves  as  they  came  slap-slapping  against  the 
current,  and  there  was  often  a  sound  as  of 
irregular  musketry.  A  steady  swish-swish 
accompanied  the  now  flowing  tide,  or  the  way 
of  the  wind.  The  salt  chill  that  came  with  it 
made  the  girl's  blood  tingle.  She  longed  to 
do  something,  she  knew  not  what. 

They  had  two  berths  to  themselves, 
screened  so  efficiently  as  to  give  them  all  the 
privacy  of  a  bedroom.  They  were  very 
happy  after  their  long  wonderful  day;  but 
what  with  happiness,  many  pipefuls  of  to- 
bacco, and  liberal  gin,  Jim  soon  fell  asleep. 
Madge  lay  awake  for  hours.  It  was  a 
boisterous  night  seaward.  The  reach  of  the 
Thames  estuary  thereabouts  was  all  in  a  jum- 
ble. The  wind,  surging  overhead,  had  a  cry 
in  it  foreign  to  any  inland  wail  or  city  scream. 

215 


William  Sharp 

Madge  listened  and  trembled.  The  sound  of 
the  sea  calling :  it  was  a  revelation,  a  memory, 
a  prophecy,  a  menace. 

ii 

Next  day,  Madge  learned  what  she  had  ex- 
pected, that  her  voyage  down-stream  had 
been  duly  noted  by  her  kindred.  She  knew 
them  well  enough  to  regret  that  she  and  Jim 
had  not  kept  out  of  sight,  at  any  rate,  from 
London  Bridge  to  the  Isle  of  Dogs.  Jim 
laughed  at  her  fears,  but  warned  her  to  hold 
her  weather-eye  open,  and,  in  particular,  to 
avoid  the  Pool. 

This,  unfortunately,  was  just  what  Madge 
could  not  do.  She  had  the  river-water  in  her 
blood.  Jim  might  as  well  have  put  a  mouse 
near  a  cheese  and  told  it  to  stay  beside  the 
empty  bread-plate. 

Gradually  she  became  a  more  and  more  fre- 
quent visitor  to  her  old  haunts.  It  was  com- 
monly understood,  Irongate-way,  that  Madge 
had  gone  off  with  some  seafaring  chap,  but 
was  getting  tired,  or  perhaps  was  not  finding 
the  "  rhino "  quite  so  free.  On  the  other 
hand,  her  secret  was  known  where  she  would 
fain  have  had  it  unguessed.  She  had  a  good 
deal  to  put  up  with.  The  female  Poolites  had 
nasty  tongues ;  the  males  of  the  species,  whom 

216 


Madge  o'  the  Pool:  a  Thames  Etching 

she  had  kept  at  bay  before  with  comparative 
ease,  believed  that  they  might  now  have  a 
turn.  An  unspoken  but  not  less  dreaded  ban 
lay  upon  her  on  the  part  of  her  own  people. 
Now  and  again  she  saw  Ned  Bull,  and  the 
savage  lust  in  the  man's  brutal  face,  gleaming 
from  its  hatred  and  revengeful  malice,  sent 
all  her  nature  into  revolt.  He  caught  her  one 
day  on  Horsleydown  stairs,  and  at  once  leered 
at  her  in  devlish  fashion  and  taunted  her. 
She  swung  round  and  struck  him  full  in  the 
face. 

The  next  moment  she  was  in  the  water. 
When  a  sympathetic  bystander  had  hauled 
her  out  —  sympathetic  in  the  sense  that  he 
wanted  to  see  Bull  "  give  the  gal  her  change  " 
in  full — the  man  strode  up  and  hissed  in 
her  ear: 

"  I'll  knife  that  bully-rip  o'  yourn  as  sure's 
I'm  death  on  '  cats ; '  ay,  an'  wot's  more,  I'll 
'ave  you  as  my  gal  yet." 

"Ay,  Ned  Bull,"  answered  Madge,  in  a 
loud,  clear  voice,  while  her  great  eyes  flashed 
dauntless  defiance,  "  that  you  will  when  the 
Pool's  run  dry,  an'  I'm  squeaking  like  a  rat  in 
the  mud;  but  not  afore  that,  s'  'elp  me 
Gawd ! " 

After  this  episode  Madge  knew  that  she 
would  have  to  be  doubly  on  her  guard.     Ned 

217 


William  Sharp 

Bull  was  not  a  man  to  have  as  an  enemy,  par- 
ticularly as  he  knew  well  where  to  strike  the 
only  blow  she  really  feared.  As  it  happened, 
her  fears  ultimately  proved  to  be  only  too 
well-grounded;  though  some  months  passed 
in  apparent  security. 

The  only  one  among  all  whom  she  knew 
who  had  remained  loyal  to  her  was  a  girl 
called  Arabella  Goodge,  to  whom  she  had  once 
done  a  prompt  service.  The  girl  had  sworn 
that  she  would  never  be  content  till  she  had 
proved  her  gratitude,  and  she  meant  it.  The 
opportunity  came  at  last. 

Late  one  afternoon  in  June,  just  six  months 
after  her  union  with  Jim,  Madge  was  aston- 
ished to  hear  herself  asked  for  at  the  door  of 
her  lodging.  "  Is  this  wheer  Jim  Shaw's  gal 
lives  ?  "  was  not  tactful,  perhaps,  but  it  was 
unmistakable.  Madge  recognised  the  voice, 
and  was  eager  to  see  one  whom  instinctively 
she  knew  to  be  a  herald  of  good  or  evil;  yet 
she  could  not  but  enjoy  a  delay  which  involved 
so  personal  a  passage  of  arms  as  that  which 
took  place  between  Mrs.  M'Corkoran,  the 
landlady,  and  Miss  Goodge.  Ultimately  Miss 
Goodge  was  announced  into  the  presence  of 
"  Mrs.  Shaw,  an'  Mrs.  James  Shaw  at  that, 
an'  be  damned  t'  ye  ?  " 

The  girl  came  —  and  at  what  risk  to  herself 

218 


Madge  o'  the  Pool:  a  Thames  Etching 

no  one  could  better  know  than  Madge  —  to 
give  warning  of  a  plot.  If  the  fog  held,  two 
boats  of  "  rats  "  were  to  lie  in  wait  that  very- 
night,  and  run  down  the  Swiftsure,  a  par- 
ticularly obnoxious  "  cat-boat."  Of  course 
Miss  Goodge  would  not  have  troubled  to  track 
down  and  visit  Madge  merely  to  tell  her  an 
interesting  item  of  news ;  only  it  happened  that 
Jim  Shaw  was  "  stroke  "  in  the  Swiftsure. 

Madge  realised  the  peril  at  once.  She 
thanked  Arabella  cordially,  and  then  set  off 
for  Jim's  station.  The  news  was  doubly  wel- 
come to  Jim;  it  meant  promotion  probably, 
as  well  as  the  excitement  of  a  fight  and  of 
turning  the  tables. 

The  upshot  was,  that  a  boat  with  three  or 
four  dummy  figures  was  at  the  right  hour 
set  adrift  through  the  fog  just  above  the  ap- 
pointed spot.  The  bait  took.  The  collision 
took  place,  and  Jim  Shaw's  dummy  in  par- 
ticular suffered  from  concussion  of  the  brain 
from  an  iron  crowbar  as  well  as  from  sub- 
mersion in  the  river.  The  "  rats "  had 
scarcely  realised  how  they  had  been  befooled 
when  the  Swiftsure  was  upon  them.  There 
was  a  rush  and  a  struggle.  The  Pool-boat 
was  upset,  and  each  of  the  late  occupants 
speedily  nabbed,  with  the  exception  of  Ned 
Bull  —  an  exception  which  Jim  Shaw  regret- 

219 


William  Sharp 

ted  personally  for  obvious  reasons,  and  offi- 
cially because  that  individual  was  particularly 
wanted  at  headquarters,  and  his  capture  meant 
for  the  captor  approval,  and  possibly  promo- 
tion by  the  powers  that  were. 

Nevertheless,  practical  approval  came. 
True,  the  crew  of  the  Swiftsure  were  indi- 
vidually and  collectively  called  "  duffers  "  for 
having  let  Bull  escape,  when  at  least  they 
might  have  hit  him  on  the  head  with  an  oar: 
though  to  this  Jim  Shaw  replied,  and  of 
course  was  backed  up  by  his  comrades,  that 
Ned  Bull  must  have  sunk  and  been  carried 
off  in  the  undertow.  A  drowned  Ned  Bull 
was  not  so  satisfactory  as  a  caught  Ned  Bull ; 
but  still  the  fact  was  one  for  congratulation. 

What  most  concerned  Shaw  was  his  promo- 
tion a  grade  higher.  The  superintendent 
who  informed  him  of  this  rise  further 
hinted  that  the  young  man  was  looked  upon 
favourably,  and  that  he  might  expect  to  get 
on,  if  he  kept  acting  on  the  square  and  was 
diligently  alert  for  the  wicked. 

On  his  way  home  next  morning,  eager  to 
tel1  Madge  the  good  news,  Jim  pondered  on 
how  best  to  celebrate  the  occasion.  Suddenly 
an  idea  occurred  to  him.  Promotion  and  pros- 
pects have  a  stimulating  effect  on  ethical 
conceptions.     Jim    decided,    firstly,    that    he 

220 


Madge  o'  the  Pool:  a  Thames  Etching 

would  make  Madge  his  legal  wife;  secondly, 
that  he  would  forgive  his  enemies  and  invite 
old  Robins  and  Will  of  the  "  Jolly  Rovers," 
and  Bob  Robins  and  his  wife,  and  make  a 
day,  or  rather  an  evening,  of  it.  This,  he 
was  sure,  would  give  Madge  a  position  and 
importance  which  she  could  not  otherwise 
have,  while  it  was  almost  the  only  way  (ex- 
cept the  convenient  if  perilous  one  of  double- 
dealing)  to  remove,  or  at  least  to  modify,  the 
resentment  which  Madge  had  incurred. 
Madge  was  delighted  with  his  news.  It 
meant  another  day,  sometime,  up  the  river; 
another  night,  Gravesend  way,  within  sound 
of  the  sea;  and,  moreover,  Jim  could  now 
carry  out  his  fascinating  projects  in  connec- 
tion with  Madame  Tussaud's  and  the  Crystal 
Palace.  To  the  question  of  the  marriage 
ceremony  she  preserved  an  indifferent  front. 
If  Jim  really  wished  it,  she,  of  course,  was 
willing;  if  he  didn't,  it  was  equally  the  same 
to  her.  The  girl,  in  fact,  was  one  of  those 
rare  natures  to  whom  the  thing  was  every- 
thing and  the  symbol  of  no  moment.  But 
she  was  seriously  opposed  to  Jim's  Christian 
charity  in  the  matter  of  the  proposed  wedding 
party.  She  loved  his  sentimental  weakness, 
but,  with  her  greater  knowledge  of  ineradi- 
cable depravity,  she  thought  that  the  honour 

221 


William  Sharp 

of  her  father's  company  might  be  dispensed 
with.  She  yielded  at  last  to  the  suggestion 
as  to  her  brother  Bob  and  his  wife,  with  a 
stipulation  as  to  Arabella  Goodge,  but  dis- 
paragingly combated  the  claims  of  her  uncle. 
Being  a  woman,  however,  having  begun  yield- 
ing, she  yielded  all.  Before  Jim  went  off  to 
the  river  that  night,  the  marriage-day  was 
fixed,  and  it  was  decided  that,  at  the  subse- 
quent party  at  the  aristocratic  river-side  tav- 
ern, the  "  Blue  Boar,"  the  company  of  Jim  and 
his  groomsman,  Ted  Brown,  and  of  Madge 
and  her  bridesmaid,  Arabella  Goodge,  was  to 
be  further  graced  by  Mr.  Dick  Robins  (if 
sufficiently  sober),  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Robert  Rob- 
ins, and  Mr.  William  Robins  of  the  "Jolly 
Rovers." 

The  marriage  was  to  take  place  three  weeks 
hence,  as  Jim  was  to  get  his  long-promised 
holiday  for  a  week,  from  the  morning  of  Sat- 
urday the  1 8th  of  July  till  the  evening  of  Fri- 
day the  24th.  What  a  week  this  was  to  be! 
Three  days  of  it  was  to  be  spent  in  the  re- 
mote and  wild  country  of  Pinner,  of  which 
suburban  locality  Jim  was  a  native,  though 
he  had  not  been  there  since  he  was  a  small 
boy.  His  aunt  owned  a  small  sweet-shop  and 
general  stationery  business  there,  and  would 
receive  him  and  his  bride  for  the  slack  days, 

222 


Madge  o'  the  Pool:  a  Thames  Etching 

Monday  till  Wednesday.  As  for  the  other 
days,  the  proposals  of  Madge  were  wild,  and 
those  of  Jim  fantastically  extravagant.  The 
young  man  was  more  in  love  with  Madge 
than  ever,  having  the  sense  to  see  that  she 
was  one  among  a  hundred  or  a  thousand. 
Their  life  together  had  been  a  happy  one  for 
both.  It  was  Jim,  however,  and  not  Madge, 
who  took  a  pleasurable  interest  in  the  fate 
of  the  child  whose  birth  was  expected  in  Sep- 
tember. 

It  was  on  the  15th  of  July,  just  three  days 
before  the  projected  marriage,  that  Madge 
was  startled,  or  at  least  perturbed,  by  an  ur- 
gent message  brought  to  her  by  a  pot-boy 
from  the  "  Jolly  Rovers."  Her  father  was  ill, 
dying,  and  wanted  to  se  her  at  once. 

Madge  was  neither  hard-hearted  nor  a 
cynic,  but  it  was  with  perfect  sincerity  that 
she  remarked,  sotto  voce,  "  I'll  be  bio  wed  if 
I'll  rise  to  that  fake."  Later,  however,  some- 
thing troubled  her.  A  new  tenderness,  if 
also  a  new  weariness,  had  come  to  her  ever 
since  she  became  daily  and  hourly  conscious 
of  the  burden  she  bore  within  her.  She  was 
so  much  an  unsullied  child  of  nature,  despite 
all  her  discoloured  and  distorted  views  of 
life,  that  this  mystery  of  motherhood  had  all 
the  astounding  appeal  of  a  new  and  extra- 

223 


William  Sharp 

ordinary  revelation.  Jim's  child  and  her's! 
The  thought  was  strange  and  quiet  as  that 
winter  landscape  she  had  seen  once  and  never 
forgotten;  though  at  times  as  strangely  and 
overmasteringly  oppressive  as  the  silence  of 
the  starry  sky,  seen  through  the  smoke  or 
lifting  fog,  or  above  the  flare  of  the  gas- 
lamps  in  the  street. 

The  result  was  that  she  set  out  for  Plum 
Alley,  off  Thompson's  Court,  the  trans-river- 
ine home  of  her  father,  when  he  was  not  at 
the  "  Jolly  Rovers "  or  elsewhere.  On  the 
way  she  called  at  the  station  to  see  Jim,  but 
heard,  to  her  surprise,  that  he  was  on  special 
duty  Horseleydown-way.  She  muttered  that 
she  might  perhaps  come  across  him,  as  she 
was  just  going  there  herself,  a  remark  which 
the  superintendent  heard  disapprovingly. 
"  Shaw's  out  on  ticklish  business,  my  girl," 
he  said,  kindly  enough ;  "  and  it  would  be  bet- 
ter if  you  were  to  keep  out  of  his  way :  better 
for  us,  better  for  him,  and  better  for  you." 
All  the  same  Madge,  as  she  went  on  her  way, 
hoped  she  might  at  least  get  a  glimpse  of 
Jim.  Since  the  Swiftsure  incident  she  had 
never  felt  at  ease  when  Shaw  was  on  special 
duty.  She  was  aware  that  Ned  Bull,  even 
if  he  was  not  drowned,  had  left  a  legacy  of 
hate  and  revenge. 

224 


Madge  o'  the  Pool:  a  Thames  Etching 

The  July  evening  was  heavy  and  sultry. 
The  air  was  as  though  it  consisted  of  a  poison- 
ous cloud  of  gin-flavoured  human  breath,  with 
rank  odours  of  divers  kinds.  In  the  narrow 
courts  and  alleys  near  the  river  the  heat  was 
stifling.  The  thunder,  which  all  the  after- 
noon had  growled  menacingly  round  the  met- 
ropolitan skirts  beyond  Muswell  Hill  and 
Highgate,  had  stolen  past  the  eastern  heights 
of  Hampstead  and  crawled  through  the 
murky  gloom  of  the  town  till  it  rested,  sulk- 
ily brooding,  from  Pimlico  to  Blackfriars. 

As  Madge  crossed  the  river,  and  stood 
for  a  few  minutes  to  look  longingly  at  the 
water,  she  noticed  first  that  the  tide  was  just 
on  the  turn  of  the  ebb,  and  next  that  a  thick, 
sultry  fog,  scarce  less  dense  than  a  typical 
u  London  mixture,"  was  crawling  stealthily  up- 
stream from  Shoreditch  and  Wapping.  She 
was  thinking  of  Jim,  and  was  rather  glad 
that  he  was  on  shore-duty. 

When  at  last  she  reached  Plum  Alley,  she 
found,  somewhat  to  her  surprise,  that  her 
father  really  awaited  her.  On  the  other  hand 
she  saw  at  a  glance  that  his  "  sudden  illness  " 
was  a  "  fake." 

Dick  Robins,  however,  did  not  give  his 
daughter  time  for  an  indignant  retreat,  much 
less  for  reproaches. 

225 


William  Sharp 

■  "  Look  'ere,  girl,"  he  began  hoarsely,  "  your 
brother  Bob's  in  trouble,  an'  you're  the  only 
blarsted  swipe  as  can  'elp  'im.  S'  'elp  me 
Gawd,  this  yere  is  true,  ev'ry  word  on  it,  an' 
no  fake.  Wot?  eh?  Were  is  'ee?  Wy, 
'ee  's  down  China  Run  way.  'Ee's  waitin' 
there.  Waitin'  for  wot  ?  Wy,  blarst  —  I 
mean  'ee's  awaitin'  fur  the  stranger.  Wot 
stranger?  Wy,  the  stranger  as  you've  to  run 
down  through  the  fog  to  the  Isle  o'  Dogs." 

Hoarse  explanations,  with  remonstrances 
on  the  part  of  Madge,  ensued,  but  at  last  she 
both  understood  and  agreed.  She  had  been 
brought  up  in  full  recognition  of  that  cardinal 
rule  that  many  things  have  to  be  done  in  life 
without  knowing  the  why  and  the  wherefore. 
She  believed  in  the  present  emergency,  and 
understood  why  the  task  of  conveying  the 
stranger  down-stream  could  be  intrusted  to 
no  Poolite  under  a  cloud.  She  was  to  go 
down  to  the  sadly  miscalled  Larkwhistle 
Wharf,  where  she  would  find  a  boat  in  charge 
of  a  man.  In  the  stern  would  be  the  "  bun- 
dle." She  was  not  to  speak  to  this 
"  bundle "  on  any  account,  and  was  not  to 
worry  "  it "  with  curious  looks.  She  was  to 
row  down-stream  till  off  Pig  Point  in  the 
Isle  of  Dogs,  and  wait  off-shore  till  another 
boat    joined    her,    and    relieved    her    of    her 

226 


Madge  o'  the  Pool:  a  Thames  Etching 

freight.  The  man,  a  friendly  lighterman, 
would  act  as  look-out  and  bow-pilot. 

"Wot  about  the  weddin',  father?"  said 
Madge,  somewhat  reluctantly,  as  she  was 
about  to  leave. 

Mr.  Robins  put  down  the  bottle  of  "Aunt 
Maria,"  from  which  he  had  just  taken  a  hoarse 
gurgling,  salival  swig. 

"  Oh  —  ah  —  to  be  sure  —  wot  about  the 
weddin'!  Ha,  ha!  Well,  I'm  blarsted  if  I 
know  if  my  noomerous  parlyhairymentary 
dooties  "—  hiccough  and  choke  — "  yes,  by 
Goramity,  I'm  bl     .     .     ." 

Madge  did  not  wait  to  hear  any  more.  She 
had  done  her  duty  so  far,  and  the  sooner  the 
rest  of  it  was  fulfilled  the  better  content 
would  she  be. 

She  could  not  leave,  however,  without  a 
parting  shot.  Dick  Robins  heard  her  voice 
as  she  vanished  downstairs :  "  Remember, 
father,  if  you  and  'Aunt  Maria'  come  to- 
gether on  Saturday,  you  won't  be  allowed 
in!" 

When  she  reached  Larkwhistle  Wharf  she 
was  perspiring  heavily.  The  brooding  thun- 
der overhead,  the  stagnant  atmosphere,  the 
airless,  suffocating  fog,  made  existence  a 
burden  and  action  a  misery.  Movement  on 
the  water,  however,  promised  some  relief. 

227 


William  Sharp 

There  was  no  one  on  the  wharf,  nothing 
beside  it  except  a  boat  in  which  a  muffled 
figure  crouched  in  the  stern-sheets,  with  a 
tall  man  seated  upright  in  the  bow.  This 
was  her  boat,  clearly. 

As  she  stepped  across  the  gunwale,  Madge 
started  and  trembled.  For  a  moment  she 
thought  she  recognized  in  the  silent,  surly 
lighterman,  no  other  than  Ned  Bull ;  but  when 
she  saw  that  he  looked  away,  indifferent  so 
far  as  she  was  concerned,  and  noticed  that 
his  hair  was  black  and  curly,  and  that  he  had 
a  long  beard,  her  sudden  suspicion  and  fear 
lapsed  into  mere  uneasiness.  As  for  the 
other  passenger,  he  was  evidently  determined 
to  betray  himself  neither  by  word  nor  by 
gesture. 

In  silence,  save  for  the  occasional  splash 
of  an  oar  and  the  steady  gurgling  wash  at  the 
bows,  Madge  rowed  the  boat  down-stream. 
Thrice  she  was  unpleasantly  conscious  of  the 
hot  breath  of  the  lighterman  upon  her  cheek ; 
at  the  third  time,  and  without  looking  round, 
she  quietly  asked  him  to  keep  a  steady  look- 
out in  front  of  him,  as  in  such  a  fog  an  ac- 
cident might  occur  at  any  moment. 

At  last  she  guessed  that  she  was  off  the 
Isle  of  Dogs.  She  was  glad.  Not  only  was 
she  exhausted  with  the  heat  and  labour,  but 

228 


Madge  o'  the  Pool:  a  Thames  Etching 

somewhat  anxious  now  about  the  condition 
of  the  boat,  a  rotten  tub  at  the  best.  It  had 
begun  to  leak,  and  the  chill,  muddy  water 
clammed  her  ankles.  Suddenly,  through  the 
fog,  she  heard  the  lighterman  give  a  peculiar 
double-whistle.  Almost  immediately  after- 
wards a  boat,  rowed  swiftly  by  two  men,  shot 
alongside. 

The  next  moment  the  lighterman  was 
aboard  the  new-comer.  Once  seated,  he 
leaned  over,  and,  whispering  hoarsely  to 
Madge  to  row  straight  on,  after  turning  the 
boat's  bow  shoreward,  told  her  that  as  soon 
as  he  came  to  a  pier  she  was  to  let  the  other 
passenger  out.  The  man  had  scarce  finished 
speaking  before  he  and  his  companions  be- 
came invisible  in  the  mist. 

Madge  was  again  alarmed.  The  voice, 
surely  was  the  voice  of  Ned  Bull.  She 
could  have  sworn  to  it,  and  yet — ? 

Wiping  the  sweat  from  her  forehead,  and 
pausing  on  her  oars  for  a  moment  to  listen 
to  the  distant  moan  and  billowy  hollow  roar 
of  the  thunder,  which  had  at  last  broken  its 
brooding  silence,  she  noticed  suddenly  that 
the  leakage  was  rapidly  becoming  serious. 
The  water  was  high  above  her  ankles,  and 
was  swiftly  rising.  A  gurgling  sound  be- 
hind her  betrayed  where  the  danger  lay.     The 

229 


William  Sharp 

boat  had  been  plugged,  and  the  plug  had  just 
recently  been  removed ! 

Barely  had  she  realized  this  when  the  dingy 
raked  up  against  a  jagged  spike,  and  began 
to  settle  down. 

She  knew  it  all  now,  all  except  the  mystery 
of  this  taciturn,  moveless  stranger.  So,  Ned 
Bull  was  to  have  his  revenge.  But  the  need 
of  prompt  action  brought  all  her  energies 
into  play.  "  Now  then,  you  there,"  she  cried 
angrily  to  her  mute  fellow-passenger,  "  you've 
got  ter  move  if  you  don't  want  to  fill  yer 
boots  wi'  bottom-mud.  We're  sinkin',  dye 
'ear?  .  .  .  Drat  the  bloomm*  cove,  'ee's 
asleep!     Hi!" 

But  here  there  was  a  lurch  and  a  rush  of 
water.  The  boat  collapsed,  as  though  it 
were  a  squeezed  sponge. 

No  sooner  had  Madge  found  her  breath 
after  her  submersion  than  she  struck  out  to- 
wards and  made  a  dive  for  her  companion, 
who  was  evidently  unable  to  swim,  and  was 
fast  drowning. 

A  minute  later  she  had  grasped  him  by  his 
rags.  She  was  conscious  at  the  same  mo- 
ment of  a  red  light  piercing  the  gloom:  the 
bow-light  of  a  barge-bug  churning  sputter- 
ingly  against  the  current  and  towing  a  half- 
empty  hoy  up-stream.     She  gave  a  loud  cry 

230 


Madge  o'  the  Pool:  a  Thames  Etching 

for  help,  and  then  another  that  was  more 
like  a  shriek.  The  second  was  the  result  of 
a  discovery  that  she  had  just  made.  The 
body  in  her  grip  was  not  that  of  a  living  man, 
nor  even  of  a  man  who  had  just  died.  It 
was  a  corpse,  stiff  and  chill. 

The  shock  terrified  her.  For  a  moment  she 
believed  that  she  had  been  made  accessory 
to  some  foul  murder.  She  let  go  of  the  hid- 
eous bundle  of  rag-clothed  flesh  she  was  up- 
holding as  best  she  could.  Another  moment, 
and  the  corpse  would  have  been  sucked  under 
and  swept  down-stream:  a  vague  instinct 
made  Madge  suddenly  reach  forward  and 
grip  the  body  again. 

The  lights  of  the  tug  and  the  green  and  red 
lanterns  of  the  hoy  now  streamed  right  upon 
her.  Weighted  as  she  was  with  her  soaked 
clothes,  and  the  burden  of  her  close  on  seven 
month's  motherhood,  she  struggled  not  only 
to  withstay  the  current,  which  fortunately 
was  sweeping  her  steadily  towards  the  hoy, 
but  to  keep  the  corpse  from  sinking  until  at 
least  she  could  see  it  clear.  Still,  the  strain 
was  too  great,  and  she  was  just  about  to  let 
go,  when  a  broad  ray  of  light  flashed  full 
athwart  the  dead  face. 

It  was  that  of  Jim  Shaw,  her  husband. 

For   a  moment   the   world   reeled.     Death 

231 


William  Sharp 

called  to  her  out  of  the  windy  darkness  over- 
head, out  of  the  rushing  river,  out  of  the  sea- 
reaches  beyond;  Death  sang  in  her  ears,  and 
held  her  body  and  soul  as  in  a  vice;  Death 
was  in  her  heart,  in  her  brain,  on  her  lips,  in 
the  dull  glaze  of  her  staring  eyes. 

Suddenly  a  mad  rage  swept  her  back  into 
the  tide  of  agony  that  was  life.  With  a  swift 
gesture  she  raised  the  head  of  the  corpse,  and 
stared  wildly  into  the  lightless,  unrecognising 
eyes.  The  wash  of  the  water  and  her  grasp 
had  loosened  the  rags  in  which  Jim  had  been 
disguised,  and  she  saw  the  purple  bruise  and 
gaping  knife-thrust-wound  through  which 
his  young  life  had  gone. 

With  a  long,  terrible  cry  of  despair  Madge 
let  go  of  the  body  of  her  beloved,  and  herself 
sank  back  into  the  water  as  a  dying  woman, 
after  a  last  flicker  of  life,  might  fall  back 
into  the  pillows.  If  all  had  occurred  a  little 
earlier  or  a  little  later,  she  would  have  been 
drowned  then  and  there,  and  have  suffered  no 
more. 

The  man  at  the  helm  on  the  tug-boat  caught 
sight  of  her,  and  yelled  to  the  man  at  the 
bow  of  the  hoy.  The  bargeman  missed  her, 
owing  to  the  rapid  slush  and  surge  of  the 
churned  water  alongside;  but  his  comrade  at 
the  stern  caught  at  the  swirling  clothes  with 

232 


Madge  o'  the  Pool:  a  Thames  Etching 

a  bill-hook,  and  in  a  few  minutes  Madge  was 
lying  unconscious  on  the  deck  of  The  Golden 
Hope.  Her  rescuers  had  seen  nothing  of  the 
row-boat,  nor  even  of  the  body  to  which  she 
had  clung;  but  they  strained  their  eyes  and 
ears  lest  any  other  unfortunates  should  be 
in  need  of  succour. 

It  was  fortunate  for  Madge  that  there 
was  a  woman  on  board.  The  wife  of  the 
master  of  The  Golden  Hope  was  not  like  so 
many  of  the  Poolites,  merely  a  female,  but  a 
woman. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night,  just  before  the 
break  of  dawn,  a  man-child  was  prematurely 
born  into  the  world,  in  the  stuffy  deck-house 
of  the  barge.  It  was  born  dead:  "an"  a 
precious  good  thing  too,  drat  it  for  its  imper- 
tinence in  a-coming  where  it  wasn't  wanted," 
as  Mrs.  Hawkins  of  The  Golden  Hope  philo- 
sophically remarked.  She  had  understood  at 
once  that  the  new-comer  was  not  born  in  law- 
ful wedlock.  Had  the  little  one  lived,  had  it 
even  been  born  alive  and  breathed  feebly  for 
a  brief  season,  the  good  woman  would  not 
only  have  lamented  its  decease,  but  would 
have  kept  close  to  the  letter  of  the  law.  As 
it  was,  she  had  a  hurried  colloquy  with  her 
husband,  a  circumlocutory  argument  to  the 
effect  that  the  poor  young  mother  might  as 

233 


William  Sharp 

well  be  saved  all  the  shame  and  trouble,  and 
perhaps  worse. 

Mr.  Peter  Hawkins  listened  gravely,  nod- 
ded once  or  twice  in  an  uninterested  way, 
spat  once  cautiously,  then  again  meditatively, 
and  finally,  emphatically.  He  left  the  deck- 
house, and  in  a  minute  or  two  returned  with 
a  large  and  heavy  brick. 

The  dawn  broke  as  The  Golden  Hope  en- 
tered and  passed  through  the  Pool.  A  soft, 
tender  wave  of  daffodil  light  blotted  out  the 
eastern  stars.  The  rigging  and  masts  of  the 
vessels  at  the  docks  and  in  the  river  became 
magically  distinct,  and  the  red  and  yellow 
lanterns  flared  gaudily.  Here  and  there  a 
green  lantern-light  danced  along  a  narrow 
surface  of  dark  water  fast  turning  into  a  hue 
of  slate.  A  dull  noise  came  from  the  city 
on  either  side,  though  London  seemed  asleep. 

On  the  river  there  was  silence,  save  for  an 
indiscriminate  grinding  noise  from  a  large 
Baltic  screw  steamer,  timed  to  sail  at  sunrise ; 
and,  on  a  China  tea-clipper,  a  Malay  singing 
shrilly,  with  fantastic  choric  variations  of  a 
strange,  uncanny  savagery. 

As  the  barge  slump-slushed  through  the 
deepest  part  of  the  Pool,  a  small  package  was 
dropped  overboard.  It  sank  immediately. 
This  package  was,  in  the  view  of  Mr.  and 

234 


Madge  o'  the  Pool:  a  Thames  Etching 

Mrs.  Hawkins,  a  cold  little  body  with  a  heavy 
brick  tied  round  its  feet;  to  its  mother,  who 
had  just  returned  to  full  consciousness,  the 
burial  was  as  that  of  her  own  joy,  her  own 
life. 

Madge  was  much  too  weak  to  move,  even 
if  kindly  Mrs.  Hawkins  had  hinted  that  her 
absence  would  be  preferable  to  her  company. 
The  woman  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  poor 
lass,  with  her  great  eyes  rilled  with  grief  and 
despair,  with  at  times,  too,  a  wild  light  which 
looked  like  passionate  hate. 

She  had  had  a  talk  with  her  husband,  and 
had  decided  to  keep  Madge  with  then  till  the 
barge  reached  Sunbury,  where  she  had  a  sis- 
ter, who  in  the  summer  months  kept  a  small 
tea  and  ale  house  for  her  own  benefit  and 
the  refreshment  of  cheap  trippers  and  way- 
farers. There  she  would  leave  the  girl  for 
a  time,  in  the  care  of  Polly  'Awkins.  If 
Madge  could  pay  for  her  keep,  so  much  the 
better;  if  not,  why  then  o'  God's  grace  she 
and  Polly  betwixt  them  would  provide  for 
her  for  a  bit  till  she  could  look  round. 

And  at  Sunbury  in  due  course  poor  Madge 
was  left.  She  had  become  a  different  woman 
in  the  few  days  which  succeeded  the  death 
of  Jim  and  the  premature  birth  and  loss  of 
the  child  of  their  love.     A   frost  had  come 

235 


William  Sharp 

over  her  youth.  She  was  so  still  and  strange 
that,  at  first,  good,  kindly,  superabundantly 
stout  Miss  Hawkins  was  quite  awed  by  her. 
The  woman's  generous  kindness  at  last  broke 
down  the  girl's  reserve,  and  the  whole  story 
was  confided  to  her.  There  was  something 
so  romantic  in  it  to  Polly  Hawkins,  the  very 
breath  of  wild  romance  indeed,  that,  for  all 
her  disapproval  and  misapprehension  of 
Madge's  action  in  the  matter  of  a  legalised 
union,  she  was  completely  won  over.  Never, 
even  in  the  Family  Astounder  or  the  West 
End  Mirror,  monthly  parts  or  old  bound  vol- 
umes of  which  she  was  wont  to  pore  over  in 
the  winter  nights,  had  she  come  across  any- 
thing that  stirred  her  so  much.  But  she  passed 
from  her  high  vicarious  excitement  into  some- 
thing resembling  the  emotional  state  of  a 
participant  in  a  tragedy  in  real  life,  when, 
one  wild  rain-swept  evening  late  in  August, 
all  the  bitter  pain  and  agony  and  passion  of 
Madge's  ruined  life  broke  out  in  revolt. 

She  had  only  one  wish  now,  she  declared, 
only  one  object:  to  be  revenged  on  her  father, 
and,  above  all,  on  Ned  Bull.  She  was  no 
longer  a  girl  with  a  heaven  of  happiness  ahead ; 
she  was  a  wrecked  woman,  with  a  choice 
between  going  to  pieces  on  the  breakers  or 
being  engulfed  in  a  quicksand.     Since  all  was 

236 


Madge  o'  the  Pool:  a  Thames  Etching 

ruin  ahead,  was  she  to  surrender  everything, 
to  go  tamely  hence,  a  victim  with  no  will  or 
power  of  retribution?  No,  she  swore,  as 
with  flashing  eyes  and  erect  figure  she  moved 
to  and  fro  in  the  kitchen  parlour,  she  would 
not  be  content  till  she  had  made  her  father 
pay  her  for  his  crime,  pay  with  his  life,  and 
till  she  saw  Ned  Bull  swing  on  the  gallows. 

Miss  Hawkins  realised  that  Madge  was  in 
earnest  —  passionately,  insanely  in  earnest; 
and  she  trembled.  She  had  come  to  love  the 
girl,  and  though  her  departure  would  be  a 
loss  both  to  her  and  her  pocket  (for  Madge 
had  communicated  with  Jim's  comrades,  who 
had  raised  a  handsome  subscription  for  her 
when  they  found  that  officially  nothing  could 
be  done),  she  would  not  otherwise  be  ill  at 
ease.  But  now  —  now  it  would  be  to  let  a 
murderess  loose.  Why,  some  day  it  would 
all  be  in  the  papers.  A  prospective  persual 
of  certain  headlines  brought  out  a  cold  pers- 
piration upon  her  neck  and  forehead :  "  'Or- 
rible  Murder  in  the  Docks,"  "Last  Confes- 
sion," "  Execution  of  Madge  Robins,"  "  What 
did  the  Bargee  do  with  the  Baby?"  "Testi- 
mony of  Polly  Hawkins,"  and  so  forth. 

Miss  Hawkins  rose,  looked  at  Madge  in 
fear  and  trembling  and  deep  admiration,  all 
merged  in  a  profound  and  loving  pity.     But 

237 


William  Sharp 

she  had  not  the  gift  of  expression,  and  all 
she  could  say  was :  "  My  dear,  'ave  some 
black-currant  cordial." 

Madge,  however,  understood.  The  tears 
broke  out  in  a  flood  from  her  eyes,  and  with 
sobs  and  shaking  frame  she  threw  herself  in 
the  arms  of  her  friend. 

The  following  day  was  Sunday.  As  much 
for  distraction  as  for  any  other  reason,  Miss 
Hawkins  persuaded  Madge  to  go  with  her  to 
church.  Madge  had  never  been  in  a  church, 
and  for  the  first  part  of  the  service  she  was 
too  shy  and  bewildered  to  understand,  much 
less  to  enjoy,  what  she  saw  and  heard.  The 
singing  soothed  her,  and  some  of  the  prayers 
left  haunting  echoes  in  her  brain.  The  clergy- 
man was  that  rare  individual,  a  fervent 
Christian  and  a  perfectly  simple  man,  who  did 
not  fulfil  his  priestly  duties  perfunctorily,  but 
as  though  he  were  a  wise  and  loving  gardener 
watering  the  precious  flowers  of  a  strict  but 
beloved  Master.  She  followed,  or  cared  to 
follow,  very  little  of  what  he  said;  but  his 
earnestness  impressed  her.  Through  all  his 
discourse  sounded,  like  a  wild  moan  and  wail 
of  the  sea-wind,  the  words  of  his  text :  "  For- 
give us  our  sins,  as  we  forgive  our  enemies." 
"  Then  shall  we  be  together  with  the  Lord," 
were  the  last  words  she  heard  the  vicar  utter, 

238 


Madge  o'  the  Pool:  a  Thames  Etching 

before  the  congregation  rose  at  the  benedic- 
tion. 

In  discussing  the  matter  later  with  Miss 
Hawkins  she  did  not  gain  much  enlighten- 
ment. Miss  Hawkins  said  that  religion  was 
meant  to  be  took  like  gin,  with  a  good  allow- 
ance of  water.  "  It  didn't  do  to  take  things 
just  as  they  were  spoke.  Vicars  an'  sich- 
like  were  paid  same  as  other  folks,  an'  their 
business  was  to  deal  out  salvation  dashed  wi' 
hell-fire. 

"  My  dear,"  she  added,  "  there's  nary  a  man 
livin',  be  he  a  vicar  or  only  a  Ranting  Johnny, 
who  doesn't  promise  us  more  of  both  one  and 
the  other  than  there's  any  need  for." 

Madge  did  not  sleep  much  that  night.  She 
was  vaguely  troubled.  The  fire  of  her  wrath 
burned  low;  and  though  she  heaped  coals  of 
remembrance  upon  it,  the  flare-up  was  a  fail- 
ure. 

At  breakfast  next  morning  she  asked  Miss 
Hawkins  abruptly  if  she  had  heard  the  vicar 
say,  "  Forgive  us  our  sins,  as  we  forgive  our 
enemies,"  and,  if  so,  what  she  thought  of  it. 

Miss  Hawkins  finished  her  tea.  Medita- 
tively she  scooped  out  the  sugar  and  slowly 
refilled  the  cup. 

"  Not  much,"  she  said. 

The  rest  of  the  meal  was  taken  in  silence. 

239 


William  Sharp 

The  day  was  so  glorious  that  Madge  wan- 
dered forth  into  a  field  near  the  river,  unwit- 
tingly elate  with  returning  youth  and  strength, 
and  quick  to  answer  to  the  sun's  summons  to 
the  blood  and  the  spirit. 

She  lay  for  a  long  time  through  the  noon 
heat,  instinctively  revelling  in  the  flood  of 
sunshine.  The  sky  was  a  dome  of  deepen- 
ing blue,  flecked  with  a  few  scattered  grey- 
mare's-tails ;  the  meadows  were  flush  with  the 
second  hay  and  autumnal  wild-flowers.  Be- 
yond her  feet  the  river  swept  slowly  by,  the 
golden  light  falling  along  its  surface  and  at 
once  transmuted  into  silver  and  azure;  while 
at  the  margins  the  over-hanging  trees  threw 
a  cloud  of  flickering  green  shadows  into  the 
moving  movelessness  below. 

It  was  almost  happiness  to  lie  there  so 
quietly,  and  watch  the  swallows  swooping  to 
and  fro,  the  cows  standing  knee-deep  in  the 
shallows  and  flapping  lazily  their  long  tails, 
the  purple  dragon-fly  shooting  from  reedy 
pool  to  pool.  For  the  time  being,  the  agony 
of  remembrance  was  dulled. 

More  and  more  Madge  perplexed  herself 
by  pondering  over  what  she  had  heard  in 
church.  She  had  never  felt  as  she  had  to- 
day. There  was  a  new  peace,  a  new  hope  al- 
most, in  her  troubled  mind,  though  it  had  not 

240 


Madge  o'  the  Pool:  a  Thames  Etching 

yet  taken  definite  form.  The  strange  and 
baffling  concourse  of  her  thoughts,  however, 
left  her  weary.  The  whole  ebb  and  flow 
found  expression,  perhaps,  in  the  sole  words 
she  spoke  aloud: 

"  No,  that  I  can't :  I  can't  make  much  of  it. 
But  I  do  see  that  going  back  to  that  hell  of 
life  at  the  Pool,  even  wi'  letting  my  father 
be,  an'  knockin'  out  the  knifin'  o'  Ned  Bull 
an'  leavin'  'im,  as  the  parson  says,  to  Gor- 
amity,  is  not  the  way  to  get  alongside  o'  Jim 
again,  let  alone  that  babby  wich  he'll  'ave  'igh 
an'  dry  sure  as  dixey." 

It  was  nigh  upon  sundown  before  Madge 
clearly  saw  her  way  of  salvation.  "  She'd 
got  to  die  somehow " ;  but  all  her  instincts 
were  in  revolt  against  that  inevitable  trans- 
ference to  the  earth  which  would  be  her  fate 
if  death  came  upon  her  at  Polly  Hawkins's  or 
any  other  house.  "  She  couldn't  abide  the 
land:  she  knew  that:  not  for  all  the  blessed- 
ness of  it  ten  times  over." 

Shortly  before  sunset  she  descried  a  boy 
going  along  the  Sunbury  towpath.  She  called 
him,  and.  for  sixpence  he  readily  agreed  to 
write  a  pencilled  note  at  her  dictation  and 
thereafter  deliver  it  to  Miss  Hawkins. 

When  the  boy  was  gone  Madge  waited  a 
little  while.     She  watched  the  sun  grow  large 

241 


William  Sharp 

and  red,  and  fall  through  the  river-haze  into 
the  very  middle  of  the  river-reaches  higher 
up.  Then  she  found  herself  listening  intently 
to  a  corncrake  calling  hoarsely  close  by 
through  the  tall  wheat. 

It  seemed  so  little  to  do,  and  after  all  so 
little  even  to  say  farewell  to. 

A  brief  while  after  sunset  a  great  red  and 
yellow  hoy,  with  a  tattered  brown  sail  out- 
spread aloft  to  catch  what  breeze  there  was 
that  would  help  the  slow  current,  came  heav- 
ily down-stream.  It  was  laden  with  rye,  and 
the  man  and  boy  on  deck  were  drowsy  with 
the  heat  and  labour  of  the  day.  Neither  of 
them  felt  the  slight  shock  when  the  dilapi- 
dated bow-keel  caught  upon  some  obstruction. 

It  was  late  that  night  when  the  Lively 
Nancy,  in  tow  of  a  fat,  unwieldy  little  barge- 
bug,  slumped  heavily  through  the  jumble  in 
the  Pool.  There  was  a  heavy  slashing,  criss- 
cross of  water  above,  and,  below  the  surface, 
a  serpentine  twisting  and  dovetailing,  with 
vicious  downward  suction.  The  tide  was 
running  up  like  a  mill-race;  the  river-current 
and  a  high  westerly  wind  tore  their  way  sea- 
ward. 

In  this  fierce  conflict  the  bent  keel  of  the 
Lively  Nancy  was  at  last  cleared  of  its  ob- 
struction. 

242 


Madge  o'  the  Pool:  a  Thames  Etching 

For  an  hour  or  more  thereafter,  till  the 
river  police  discovered  it,  a  woman's  body 
was  tossed  to  and  fro  in  the  Pool,  idly  drift- 
ing and  bumping  against  the  slimy  piers, 
along  the  gaunt,  deserted  wharves. 


243 


The  Gypsy  Christ 


THE  GYPSY  CHRIST 

CHAPTER    I 

There  are,  among  the  remote  uplands  of  the 
Peak  district,  regions  whose  solitude  is  that 
of  a  wilderness.  Over  much  of  the  country 
there  is  a  frown.  When  fair  weather  pre- 
vails, though  these  lofty  plateaux  are  seldom 
wholly  free  from  cloud-shadow,  this  frown 
is  merely  that  of  a  stern  man,  preoccupied 
with  sombre  thoughts.  When  there  come 
rain  and  wind,  and  still  more  the  dull  absorb- 
ing gloom  that  floods  out  of  the  east  and  the 
north-east,  the  frown  is  forbidding,  mina- 
tory even,  at  times  almost  tragic.  Viewed 
anywhere  from  High  Peak  to  Sir  William, 
these  uplands  are  like  the  sea.  They  reach  on- 
wards, lapse,  merge  into  each  other,  in  a  simi- 
lar succession  of  vast  billows:  grand  as  they, 
as  apparently  limitless,  and,  at  times,  as  over- 
whelmingly depressing. 

The  villages  are  scattered,  insignificant; 
built  of  dull,  grey  stone:  gardenless,  flower- 
less.  The  people  are  uncouth  in  speech  and 
manner :  cold,  too,  as  the  stone  of  their  houses, 
and  strangely  quiet  in  the  ordinary  expression 
of  emotion, 

247 


William  Sharp 

In  all  regions  where  the  wind  is  the  para- 
mount feature  in  the  duel  between  man  and 
the  powers  of  nature,  as  upon  the  seas  and 
great  moorland  tracts,  it  is  noticeable  that 
human  voices  are  pitched  in  an  unusually  low 
key.  In  remote  islands,  upon  mountains,  on 
the  billows  of  hill-land  that  sweep  up  from 
the  plains  and  fall  away  in  dales  and  valleys, 
on  long  flats  of  grass,  fen,  or  morass,  and 
upon  the  seas,  the  human  voice  takes  to  itself 
in  time  a  peculiar  and,  to  those  who  know 
the  cause,  a  strangely  impressive  hush.  Here, 
it  is  as  of  men  subdued,  bitter  even,  for  ever 
gloom  ful. 

No  land  is  so  dreary  as  to  be  without  re- 
deeming beauty.  The  hill  region  of  the  Peak, 
that  most  visited,  at  any  rate,  has  singular 
charm.  The  dales  are  famous  for  their  love- 
liness, their  picturesqueness ;  the  heather 
slopes  for  their  blithe  air ;  the  high  moors  for 
their  wide  perspectives,  their  clear  windy 
breath,  their  glory  of  light  and  shadow. 
Nevertheless,  there  are  vast  districts  where 
nature,  and  man,  and  the  near  way  and  the 
wide  prospect,  and  the  very  immensity  of  the 
environing  sky  are  permeated  with  the  inner 
spirit  of  gloom,  as  the  cloud-caravans  of  July 
with  their  burden  of  thunder. 

There  are  reasons  why  I  do  not  wish  to  be 
248 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

explicit  topographically,  in  what  I  am  about 
to  narrate:  indeed,  no  one  from  what  I  write 
could  find  the  Wood  o'  Wendray,  or  the  House 
o*  Fanshawe.  It  must  suffice,  that  what  I 
have  to  tell  occurred  in  the  remotest,  perhaps 
the  grandest,  certainly  to  me  the  most  impres- 
sive region  of  the  Peak-Land. 

Far  among  these  uplands — at  the  locality 
alluded  to,  from  twelve  or  fifteen  hundred  to 
two  thousand  feet  above  the  sea — there  is  an 
almost  trackless  morass,  called  Grailph  Moss. 

The  name  is  by  some  supposed  to  be  a  cor- 
ruption of  "  grey  wolf  " :  for  here,  according 
to  rumour,  the  last  wolf  in  England  had  its 
lair,  and  might  have  been  living  still  (for  the 
huntsmen  aver  that  the  grey  wolf  lives  three 
hundred  years !)  but  for  its  audacity  at  the 
time  of  the  Great  Plague.  Packmen  and 
other  wayfarers  have  alleged  that  on  wild 
nights  of  storm,  or  in  even  more  perilous 
seasons  of  mist  or  marsh-fog,  they  have  seen 
a  gaunt  shape  leap  towards  them  from  a  dense 
clump  of  heather  or  from  behind  a  juniper,  or 
have  heard,  behind  or  in  stealthy  circuit,  ter- 
rifying footfalls  as  of  a  huge  dog. 

Grailph  Moss  comes  right  upon  an  old  dis- 
used highway.  Along  this  road,  at  far  in- 
tervals, are  desolate  hamlets:  in  all  save  the 

249 


William  Sharp 

three  summer  months,  apt  to  be  isled  in  the 
mist  breathed  from  the  myriad  nostrils  of  the 
great  Fen.  At  these  times,  the  most  dread- 
ful thing  to  endure  is  the  silence. 

Not  far  from  one  of  these  hamlets,  and 
somewhat  more  removed  from  the  contagion 
of  the  Moss :  high  set,  indeed,  and  healthy,  if 
sombre  of  aspect  save  under  the  fugitive 
bloom  of  the  afterglow,  or  where  redeemed 
by  the  moonlight  to  an  austere  beauty, —  is  a 
strange  house,  the  strangest  I  have  seen  any- 
where. 

The  House  o'  Fanshawe,  it  is  called  in  the 
neighbourhood:  though  what  is  perplexing  is 
that  the  name  is  centuries  old,  though  for 
generations  no  family  of  that  name  occupied 
the  Manor  of  Eastrigg:  nor  is  there  any  lo- 
cal legend  concerning  a  Fanshawe,  or  record 
of  any  kind  to  account  for  the  persistency  of 
the  designation. 

Long  before  my  friend,  James  Fanshawe, 
took  the  Manor,  ruin  had  come  upon  the 
middle  as  well  as  the  northern  portion.  In 
fact,  the  southern  end,  which  had  been  the 
original  Elizabethan  house,  was  scarce  better, 
and  had  been  preserved  at  all  only  because 
of  its  fantastic,  often  beautiful,  and  always 
extraordinary  roof  and  wainscot  carvings. 
These  were  none  the  less  striking  from  the 

250 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

fact  that  they  were  whitewashed.  Many- 
were  in  a  fashion  suggestive  of  the  arabesques 
of  Barbary,  such  as  are  to  be  seen  to  this  day 
in  the  private  houses  of  the  rich  Moors  of 
Tlemgen  or  Tunis.  Others  recalled  the  freaks 
of  the  later  Renaissance  imagination:  and 
some  were  of  Gothic  rudeness  and  vigour. 
But  the  most  extraordinary  room  of  all  was 
a  small  chamber  opening  from  a  large  vaulted 
apartment.  All  the  panels  on  three  sides  of 
the  room,  and  the  whole  roof,  were  covered 
with  arabesques  of  the  Crucifixion:  no  one 
whitewashed  carving  quite  like  any  other, 
though  all  relentlessly  realistic,  sometimes 
savagely,  brutally  so.  The  fourth  side  was  of 
varnished  black  oak.  Against  this,  in  star- 
tling relief,  was  a  tall  white  cross,  set  in  a 
black  stand;  with  a  drooping  and  terrible 
figure  of  the  crucified  God,  the  more  pain- 
fully arresting  from  the  fact  that  the  sub- 
stance of  which  it  had  been  wrought  had  been 
dyed  a  vivid  scarlet,  that,  with  time,  had  be- 
come blood-red. 

A  word  as  to  how  I  came  to  know  this 
house  in  this  remote  and  desolate  region. 

Two  or  three  years  ago,  when  wandering 
afoot  through  Croatia,  I  encountered  James 
Fanshawe.     There  is  no  need  to  narrate  what 

251 


William  Sharp 

led  up  to  our  strange  meeting  —  for  a  strange 
meeting,  in  strange  circumstances,  and  in  a 
strange  place,  it  was.  It  will  suffice  for  me 
to  say  that  our  encounter,  our  voluntary  ac- 
quaintanceship, and  our  subsequent  friend- 
ship, all  arose  from  the  circumstance  that 
each  of  us  could,  with  more  justice  than  some 
who  have  done  so,  claim  to  be  a  Romany  Rye 
—  which  is  not  exactly  "  a  gentleman-gypsy," 
as  commonly  translated,  but  rather  an  ama- 
teur-gypsy, or,  as  a  "  brother  "  once  phrased 
it  to  me,  "  a  sympathising,  make-believe 
gypsy."  There  are  some  who  can  talk  the 
dialects  of  "  Little  Egypt,"  or  at  least  under- 
stand them,  and  many  who  know  something 
of  the  folk-lore,  habits  and  customs  of  the 
wandering  people:  but  there  are  few,  I  take 
it,  who  have  lived  the  gypsy-life,  who  have 
undergone,  or  even  heard  of,  the  ordeal  of 
the  Blue  Smoke,  the  Two  Fires,  and  the  Run- 
ning Water. 

Thereafter  we  met  on  several  occasions: 
frequently  in  Italy,  or  the  Tyrol,  or  southern 
Germany:  generally  by  pre-arrangement. 
The  last  time  I  saw  Fanshawe,  until  I  met 
him  in  Glory  Woods,  near  Dorking,  was  in 
the  Hohenheim  country,  on  the  high  plateau 
to  the  southwest  of  Stuttgart.  It  was  then  he 
told  me  he  had  been  to  England,  and  had 

252 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

travelled  afoot  from  Southampton  to  Hull: 
and  that  he  had  at  last  decided  to  settle  in 
that  country,  probably  in  the  New  Forest  re- 
gion. I  promised  to  visit  him  in  England 
when  next  there.  I  wanted  to  fare  a  while 
with  him  there  and  then;  but  as  it  was  clear 
he  did  not  at  that  juncture  wish  my  company, 
I  forbore. 

James  Fanshawe  was  a  noticeable  man. 
Tall,  sinewy,  ruddy,  though  with  dark,  lumi- 
nous eyes  and  long,  trailing,  coal-black 
moustache,  he  would  not  have  seemed  more 
than  thirty  years  old  but  for  his  iron-grey 
hair,  and  the  deep  crow's-feet  about  his  mouth, 
eyes,  and  temples.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he 
was,  at  the  time  I  first  met  him,  at  the  Mid- 
summer's-day  of  human  life;  for  he  had  just 
entered  his  fortieth  year. 

One  early  spring  day,  when,  by  the  merest 
hazard,  we  came  across  each  other  in  Glory 
Woods,  he  reminded  me  that  nearly  two  years 
had  passed  since  my  promise  to  visit  him. 
He  had  not,  after  all,  settled  in  the  south 
country,  but,  he  told  me,  in  a  strange  old 
house,  in  a  remote  and  wild  moorland  tract 
of  Derbyshire.  While  he  spoke,  I  was  ob- 
servant of  the  great  change  in  him.  He  had 
grown  ten,  fifteen  years  older  in  appearance. 
The   iron-grey  hair  had  become  white;   the 

253 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

strong  face  rigid;  the  swift,  alert  look  now 
that  of  a  visionary,  or  of  one  who  brooded 
much.  Perhaps  the  most  marked  change  was 
in  the  eyes.  What  had  always  struck  me  as 
their  dusky,  velvety  Czech  beauty  was  no 
longer  noticeable.  They  were  much  lighter, 
and  had  a  strange,  staring  intensity. 

But  I  was  glad  to  see  him  again:  glad  to 
pick  up  lost  clues,  and  glad  to  be  able  to 
promise  to  be  with  him  at  Eastrigg  Manor  by 
the  end  of  the  sixth  week  from  that  date. 

That  is  how  I  came  to  know  the  "  House  o' 
Fanshawe." 


CHAPTER   II 

Eastrigg  itself  is  more  than  twenty  miles 
from  the  nearest  station.  The  drive  thence 
seemed  the  longer  and  drearier  because  of 
the  wet  mist  which  hung  over  the  country. 
Even  sounds  were  soaked  up  by  it.  I  never 
passed  through  a  drearier  land.  Mid-April, 
and  not  a  green  thing  visible,  not  a  bird's 
note  audible! 

The  driver  of  the  gig  was  taciturn,  yet  could 
not  quite  restrain  his  curiosity.  He  was  not 
an  Eastrigg  man,  but  knew  the  place,  and  all 
connected  with  it.  He  would  fain  have  as- 
certained somewhat  about  its  owner;  perhaps, 

254 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

too,  about  myself,  or  at  any  rate  about  my 
object  in  coming  to  the  reputed  haunted,  if 
not  accursed,  House  o'  Fanshawe,  where  my 
host-to-be  lived  alone,  attended  only  by  an 
old  man  named  Hoare,  a  "  foreigner  "  too,  be- 
cause come  from  the  remote  south  country. 
When,  however,  he  found  me  more  reserved 
than  himself,  he  desisted  from  further  inquiry, 
or  indeed  remarks  of  any  kind. 

It  was  in  silence  that  we  drove  the  last  ten 
miles;  in  silence  that  we  jolted  along  a  rude, 
grassy  highway  of  olden  days,  heavily  rutted ; 
in  silence  that  we  passed,  first  one,  then  an- 
other gaunt  ruin,  —  two  of  the  many  long- 
deserted  lead-mine  chimneys  which  stand  here 
and  there  throughout  that  country,  and  add 
unspeakably  to  its  desolation.  Finally,  in  si- 
lence we  reached  the  House  o'  Fanshawe. 

A  small  side-door,  under  heavy  beams, 
opened.  An  elderly  man  stood,  his  right  hand 
over  his  eyes,  and  his  left  holding  a  lantern 
which  emitted  a  pale  yellow  glow,  beneath 
which  his  face  was  almost  as  wan  and  white 
as  his  bleached  hair. 

He  looked  at  me  anxiously,  questioningly,  I 
thought.  Instinctively,  I  inquired  if  Mr. 
Fanshawe  were  unwell. 

"  Are  you  a  doctor?  "  he  asked,  almost  in  a 
whisper ;  adding,  on  my  reply  in  the  negative, 

255 


William  Sharp 

"  I  hoped  you  might  be.  I  fear  the  master  is 
dying." 

Startled,  I  unburdened  myself  of  my  wet 
overcoat,  and  then  followed  the  man  along  a 
rambling  passage.  On  the  way,  he  confided 
to  me  that  though  Mr.  Fanshawe  was  up  and 
about,  he  had  been  very  strange  of  late,  and 
that  he  ate  little,  slept  little,  and  was  some- 
times away  on  the  Moss  or  the  higher  moors 
for  ten  or  twelve  hours  at  a  time;  further, 
thai  within  the  last  few  days  he  had  become 
steadily  worse. 

Even  this  forewarning  did  not  adequately 
prepare  me  for  the  change  in  my  friend. 
When  I  saw  him,  he  was  sitting  in  the  twi- 
light before  a  peat  fire  on  which  a  log,  aflame 
at  one  end  though  all  charred  at  the  other, 
burned  brightly.  His  hair  was  quite  white: 
so  white  that  that  of  his  man,  Robert  Hoare, 
was  of  a  yellow  hue  by  comparison.  It  hung 
long  and  lank  about  his  cadaverous  face, 
which,  in  its  wanness  and  rigid  lines,  was  that 
of  a  corpse,  except  for  the  dark  luminous 
eyes  I  remembered  so  well,  once  more  like 
what  they  were  in  the  days  I  first  knew  him, 
but  now  so  intensely,  passionately  alive,  that 
it  was  as  though  the  flame  of  his  life  were 
concentrated  there.  He  rose,  stiffly  and  as 
though  with  difficulty,  and  I  saw  how  wo- 
256 


William  Sharp 

fully  thin  he  had  become.  It  was  with  a  shock 
of  surprise  I  realised  what  vitality  the  man 
still  had,  when  he  took  my  hand  in  his,  gripped 
it  almost  as  powerfully  as  of  yore,  and,  half 
led,  half  pushed  me  into  an  arm-chair  oppo- 
site his  own. 

Yes,  he  admitted,  he  had  been  ill,  but  was 
now  better.  Soon,  he  hoped,  he  would  be 
quite  well  again.  The  eyes  contradicted  the 
lie  of  the  lips. 

After  a  time  our  constraint  wore  off;  but 
though  I  avoided  the  subject  of  his  health  and 
recent  way  of  life,  he  interrupted  me  again 
and  again  to  assure  me  that  he  would  not  have 
let  me  come  so  far,  to  visit  so  dreary  a  house 
and  see  so  unentertaining  an  invalid,  had  he 
known  how  to  intercept  me. 

Suddenly  he  rose,  and  insisted  on  showing 
me  over  the  house.  Room  by  room  fascinated 
me;  but  that  small  chamber  of  which  I  have 
already  spoken,  that  with  the  crucifix,  gave 
me  nothing  short  of  an  uncontrollable  re- 
pugnance, something  akin  to  horror.  He  no- 
ticed this,  though  neither  the  lips  offered  nor 
the  eyes  invited  any  remark. 

No  wonder  that  from  the  several  ominous 
circumstances  of  this  meeting  I  was  half  pre- 
pared for  some  unpleasant  or  even  tragic 
denouement.     But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  noth- 

257 


William  Sharp 

ing  happened  to  alarm  or  further  perturb  me ; 
and  long  before  I  went  to  my  room  I  had  no- 
ticed a  marked  improvement  in  Fanshawe, 
that  is,  in  his  mental  condition;  physically,  he 
was  still  very  distraught  as  well  as  frail,  and 
appeared  to  suffer  extremely  from  what  I  took 
to  be  nervous  cold,  though  he  said  it  was  the 
swamp-ague.  "  The  Moss  Fiend  had  got 
him,"  he  declared.  He  wore  a  long  frieze 
overcoat,  even  as  he  sat  by  the  fire;  and  all 
the  time,  even  at  our  frugal  supper,  kept  his 
hands  half-covered  in  thick  mittens. 

Naturally  enough,  I  did  not  sleep  for  long. 
In  the  first  place,  sleep  is  always  tardy  with 
me  in  absolutely  windless  or  close,  rainy 
weather;  then  the  absolute  silence,  the  sense 
of  isolation,  affected  me ;  and,  more  effectually 
still,  I  could  hear  Fanshawe  monotonously 
walking  to  and  fro  in  the  room  to  my  right. 
This  room,  moreover,  was  no  other  than  the 
fantastically  decorated  ante-chamber.  I  could 
scarce  bear  to  think  of  my  distraught  friend, 
sleepless,  and  wearily  active,  in  the  company 
of  that  terrifying  crucifix,  that  chamber  of 
the  myriad  reduplications  of  the  Passion. 
But  at  last  I  slept,  and  slept  well;  nor  did  I 
wake  till  the  late  sunlight  streamed  in  upon 
me  through  the  unshuttered  and  blindless  win- 
dow. 

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The  Gypsy  Christ 

We  spent  most  of  that  day  in  the  open  air. 
The  morning  was  so  blithe  and  sweet,  Fan- 
shawe  lost  something  of  his  air  of  tragic  ill; 
and  I  began  to  entertain  hopes  of  his  ultimate 
recovery.  But  in  the  early  afternoon,  when 
we  had  returned  for  the  meal  which  had  been 
prepared  for  us  an  hour  before,  the  weather 
changed.  It  grew  sultry  and  overclouded. 
The  glass,  too,  had  fallen  abruptly.  The 
change  affected  my  friend  in  a  marked  degree. 
He  became  less  and  less  communicative,  and 
at  last  morose  and  almost  sullen. 

I  proposed  another  walk.  He  agreed,  with 
an  eagerness  that  surprised  me.  "  I  will  show 
you  one  or  two  places  where  I  often  go,"  he 
added :  "  places  that  the  country  people 
about  here  avoid;  for  the  moor- folk  are  su- 
perstitious, as  all  who  live  in  remote  places 
are." 

The  day,  as  I  have  said,  had  become  dull 
and  heavy;  and  what  with  the  atmospheric 
change,  and  the  saturnine  mood  of  my  com- 
panion, I  felt  depressed.  The  two  gaunt 
chimneys  which  rose  above  their  respective 
mines  were  my  skeletons  at  the  feast.  Other- 
wise I  could  have  enjoyed  many  things  in, 
and  aspects  of,  that  unfamiliar  country;  but 
these  tall,  sombre,  bat-haunted,  wind-gnawed 
'*  stacks,"  rising  from  dishevelled  ruins,  which, 

259 


William  Sharp 

again,  overlay  the  deserted  lead-mines,  op- 
pressed me  beyond  all  reason. 

At  one  of  these  we  stopped.  Fanshawe 
asked  me  to  throw  something  into  a  hollow 
place  beyond  one  of  the  walls  of  a  building. 
I  lifted  a  large  stone,  and  threw  it  as  di- 
rected. I  thought,  at  first,  it  had  fallen  on 
soft  grass,  or  among  weeds  and  nettles,  for  no 
sound  was  audible.  Then,  as  it  were  under 
foot,  I  heard  a  confused  clamour,  followed  by 
the  faint  echo  of  a  splash. 

"  That  will  give  you  some  idea  of  the  depth 
of  the  mine,,,  my  companion  remarked  quietly. 
"  But  it  is  deeper  than  you  imagine,  even  now. 
There  are  sloping  ledges  under  that  water  in 
which  the  stone  fell  at  last ;  and  beneath  these 
ledges  are  corridors  leading  far  into  the  cav- 
erns whence  nothing  ever  comes  again." 

"  It  is  not  a  place  for  a  nervous  person  to 
come  to,"  I  answered,  with  as  much  indiffer- 
ence as  I  could  assume ;  "  nor  for  any  one 
after  sundown,  and  alone." 

Fanshawe  looked  at  me  passively,  then  said 
quietly  that  he  often  came  there. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  added,  "  how  many  dead 
will  arise  from  a  place  like  this  when  the 
trump  of  the  Resurrection  stirs  the  land?" 

"  Has  any  one  ever  fallen  into  this  mine,  or 
been  murdered  in  it  ?  " 

260 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

"  They  say  so.  It  is  very  likely.  But 
come:  I  will  show  you  a  stranger  thing." 

So  on  we  trudged  again,  for,  I  should  think, 
nearly  a  mile,  and  mostly  through  a  thin  wood. 
I  wondered  what  new  unpleasant  feature  of 
this  unattractive  country  I  was  to  see.  It 
was  with  half-angry  surprise  I  was  confronted 
at  last  by  a  thick  scrub  of  gorse,  overhung  by 
three  large  birches,  and  told  that  there  was 
what  we  had  come  to  see.  Naturally, 
there  was  nothing  to  arrest  my  attention. 
When  I  said  so,  however,  Fanshawe  made 
no  reply.  I  saw  that  he  was  powerfully 
affected,  though  whether  grief  or  some  other 
emotion  wrought  him,  I  could  not  deter- 
mine. 

Suddenly  he  turned,  said  harshly  that  he 
was  dead  tired,  and  wished  to  go  home 
straightway.  Beyond  a  statement  about  a 
short  cut  by  Dallaway  Moor,  he  did  not 
vouchsafe  another  remark  until  we  reached 
tjie  Manor. 

At  the  entrance  Hoare  met  us,  and  was 
about  to  speak,  when  he  saw  that  his  master 
was  not  listening,  but,  rigid,  with  moving  jaw 
and  wild  eyes,  was  staring  at  the  panels  of 
the  door. 

"Who  .  .  .  who  has  been  here?"  he 
cried  hoarsely ;  but  for  answer  the  man  merely 

261 


William  Sharp 

shook  his  head  stupidly,  muttering  at  last  that 
not  a  soul  had  been  near  the  place. 

"  Who  has  been  here  ?  Who  has  been  here  ? 
Who  did  this?"  my  friend  gaspingly  reiter- 
ated, as  he  pointed  to  a  small  green  cross,  the 
paint  still  wet,  impressed  a  foot  or  more 
above  the  latch. 


CHAPTER   III 

Fanshawe  was  taciturn  throughout  the 
first  part  of  the  evening.  We  ate  our  meal  in 
silence.  Afterwards,  in  his  study,  he  main- 
tained the  same  self-absorption,  and  for  a  long 
time  seemed  unaware  that  he  was  not  alone. 
The  atmospherical  oppression  made  this  si- 
lence still  more  obvious.  Even  the  fire  burned 
dully,  and  the  smoke  that  went  up  from  the 
mist-wet  logs  was  thick  and  heavy. 

It  was  with  a  sense  of  relief  I  heard  an 
abrupt,  hollow,  booming  sound,  as  of  distant 
guns  at  sea.  The  long-expected  thunder  was 
drawing  near.  For  many  minutes  after  this 
the  silence  could  be  heard.  Then  there  came 
a  blast  of  wind  that  struck  the  house  heavily, 
for  all  the  world  like  an  enormous  billow 
flooding  down  upon  and  all  but  engulfing  a 
dismasted  ship. 

Fanshawe  raised  his  head,  and  listened  in- 

262 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

tently.  A  distant,  remotely  thin  wail  was 
audible  for  a  few  seconds :  the  voice  of  the 
wind-eddy  far  away  upon  the  moors.  Then, 
once  more,  the  same  ominous  silence. 

"  I  hope  the  storm  will  break  soon,"  I  said 
at  last. 

"  Yes.  We'll  have  one  or  two  more  blasts 
like  that,  then  a  swift  rain ;  then  the  night  will 
become  black  as  ink,  and  the  thunderstorm 
will  rage  for  an  hour  or  so,  and  suddenly 
come  back  upon  us  again  worse  than  before." 

I  looked  at  my  friend  surprisedly. 

"  How  can  you  tell  ?  " 

"  I  have  seen  many  thunderstorms  and  gales 
on  these  moorlands." 

I  was  about  to  say  something  further,  when 
I  saw  a  look  upon  my  companion's  face  which 
I  took  to  be  that  of  arrested  thought  or  ar- 
rested speech. 

I  was  right  in  my  surmise,  for,  in  a  low 
voice,  he  resumed: 

M  You  will  doubtless  hear  many  another 
storm  such  as  this.  As  for  me,  it  is  the  last 
to  which  I  shall  ever  listen:  unless,  as  may 
well  be,  the  dead  hear.  After  all,  what 
grander  death-hymn  could  one  have?" 

"  You  are  ill,  Fanshawe,  but  not  so  ill  as 
you  believe.  In  any  case,  you  do  not  fear  you 
are  going  to  die  to-night  ?  " 

263 


William  Sharp 

He  looked  at  me  long  and  earnestly  before 
he  answered. 

"I  —  suppose  —  not,"  he  said  slowly,  at 
last,  but  in  the  meditative  way  of  one  revolv- 
ing a  dubious  matter  in  his  mind :  "  no,  I  sup- 
pose not  necessarily  to-night!* 

A  long,  discordant  cry  of  the  wind  came 
wailing  across  the  Reach  o'  Dallaway.  It  was 
scarce  gone,  when  a  ponderous  distant  crash- 
ing betokened  the  onset  of  the  elemental  strife 
to  be  fought  out  overhead. 

The  effect  upon  Fanshawe  was  electric. 
He  rose,  moved  to  and  fro,  twice  went  to  the 
window,  and  drew  up  the  blind.  The  second 
time,  he  opened  the  latch.  The  window  was 
of  the  kind  called  half-French ;  that  is,  it  was 
of  a  single  sheet  of  glass,  but  came  no  further 
than  two-thirds  of  the  way  down,  the  lower 
third  being  of  solid  wood,  and  could  be 
opened  (drawn  inward)  only  in  its  glazed 
section. 

He  withdrew  the  fastening,  stooped,  and 
peered  into  the  yard.  A  stealthy,  shuffling 
sound  was  audible,  followed  by  a  low  whine. 

Fanshawe  seemed  satisfied,  and,  having 
closed  the  latch,  drew  together  the  thick, 
heavy  curtains. 

"That  was  my  bloodhound,  Grailph,"  he 
explained.     "  I  always  let  him  out  at  night 

264 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

He  keeps  watch  here.  He  is  a  huge  beast, 
cream-white  in  colour,  and  so  is  as  rare  and 
remarkable  as  he  is  trustworthy.  I  brought 
him,  as  a  puppy,  from  Transylvania.  The 
people  hereabouts  hate  and  fear  him :  the  more 
so,  because  of  his  name.  I  have  told  you 
about  the  legend  of  Grailph  Moss?  Yes? 
Well,  the  rumour  has  filtered  from  mind  to 
mind  that  my  Grailph  is  no  other  than  the 
original  Grailph,  or  Grey  Wolf;  and  that  in 
some  way  he,  I,  and  the  '  House  o'  Fan- 
shawe '  are  connected  in  an  uncanny  destiny." 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  you're  not  ?  "  I  inter- 
rupted, half  in  badinage,  half  in  earnest. 

He  took  my  remark  seriously,  however. 

"  No ;  I  am  not  sure.  But  who  can  tell 
what  is  the  secret  thing  that  lies  hidden  in 
the  shadow,  in  the  wave,  and  in  the  brain  ?  w 

"  Ah,  you  remember  what  old  Mark  Zen- 
gro  said  that  day  by  the  cavern  of  the  Jallu- 
sietch,  in  Bohemia!  How  well  I  remember 
that  afternoon:  how  he  called  you  brother 
and " 

"Well?" 

"  Oh,  and  what  a  strange  talk  we  had  after- 
wards by  the  fire,  when " 

"  No ;  that  was  not  what  you  were  going  to 
say.  You  were  about  to  add:  '  How  angry 
you  were  when  Zengro  made  with  his  fore- 

265 


William  Sharp 

finger  the  sign  of  a  circle  about  him;  and  how 
you  nearly  left  the  camp  then  and  there!  Is 
not  that  true?" 

"  Yes,  it  is  true." 

"  I  thought  so.  Well,  I  had  good  reason  to 
be  angry." 

"  Oh,  his  action  meant  only  that  he  took 
you  to  be  fey,  as  we  say  in  the  north." 

"  No,  it  meant  more  than  that.  But  this 
brings  me  to  what  I  have  wanted  to  say  to 
you :  what  must  be  told  to-night." 

He  stopped,  for  the  roar  about  the  house 
shook  it  to  its  foundations :  one  of  those  swift, 
howling  whirlwinds  which  sometimes  precede 
the  steady  march  of  the  mighty  host  of  the 
thunder. 

When  it  was  over,  he  pulled  away  the  smok- 
ing logs  from  the  fire  and  substituted  three 
or  four  of  dry  pine  and  larch,  already  dusted 
with  salt.  The  flame  was  so  vivid  and  cheer- 
ful that,  when  my  host  eclipsed  the  lamplight, 
and  left  us  in  the  pleasant  firelit  gloom,  the 
change  was  welcome,  though  the  wildness  of 
the  night  without  seemed  to  be  enhanced. 

For  at  least  five  minutes  Fanshawe  sat 
silent,  staring  into  the  red  glow  over  which  the 
blue  and  yellow  tongues  of  flame  wove  an 
endless  weft.     Then,  abruptly,  he  began : * 

1His  narrative,  in  its  earlier  stages,  was  much 
266 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

"You  know  that  I  have  Gypsy  blood  in 
me.  It  is  true.  But  I  do  not  think  you  know- 
how  strong  in  the  present,  how  remote  in  the 
past,  the  strain  is.  In  the  twelfth  century  my 
parental  ancestors  were  of  what  might  be 
called  the  blood-royal  among  the  Children  of 
the  Wind.  One  of  them,  head  of  a  great 
clan  at  that  time  dispersed,  during  the  sum- 
mer months,  through  the  region  of  the  New 
Forest,  was  named  John  the  Heron.  Hunt- 
ing one  day  in  these  woodlands,  the  king's 
brother  was  set  upon  by  outlaws.  They 
would  have  killed  him,  or  at  least  withheld 
him  against  a  ransom,  but  for  the  bravery  of 
his  unknown  Gypsy  ally.  The  royal  duke  was 
grateful,  and  so  in  turn  was  the  king.  Wild 
John  the  Heron  became  John  Heron  of  Roe- 
hurst  and  the  lands  round  Elvwick.  He  had 
seven  sons,  five  of  whom  died  tragic  deaths 
or  mysteriously  disappeared.  The  eldest  in 
due  time  succeeded  his  father;  the  youngest 
travelled  into  Derbyshire  in  the  train  of  a 
great  lord.     In  those  days  the  most  ancient, 

longer  than  my  partial  reproduction  of  it;  for  some 
of  it  dealt  with  irrelative  matters,  some  of  it  was 
merely  reminiscent  of  our  own  meetings  and  experi- 
ences in  common,  and  some  of  it  was  abruptly  dis- 
cursive. Interwrought  with  it  were  the  sudden 
tumults,  the  tempestuous  violence  of  that  night  of 
storm:  when,  through  it  all,  the  thunder  was  to  me 
as  the  flying  shuttle  in  the  loom  of  Destiny. 

267 


William  Sharp 

the  proudest,  but  even  then  the  most  impov- 
erished of  the  old  families  of  that  region, 
was  the  house  of  Ravenshawe.  Its  head  was 
Sir  Alured  Ravenshawe,  a  man  so  haughty 
that  it  was  said  he  thought  the  king  his  in- 
ferior. Gilbert  Heron  was  able  to  do  him 
a  great  service;  and  ultimately,  through  his 
influence,  the  young  man  succeeded  to  the 
name  and  titles  of  a  beggared  and  outlawed 
knight,  Sir  Vane  Fanshawe.  Nevertheless, 
there  could  have  been  no  question  of  the  mar- 
riage of  the  young  Sir  Gilbert  Fanshawe  (for 
the  name  of  Heron  was  to  be  relinquished) 
with  the  lady  Frida,  though  the  young  people 
had  fallen  in  love  with  each  other  at  their  first 
meeting;  and,  ultimately,  it  was  permitted  at 
all,  and  then  reluctantly,  only  because  of  two 
further  happenings.  The  first  of  these  was 
the  undertaking  of  the  great  lord  with  whom 
the  young  man  was  (a  near  kinsman  and 
friend  of  Sir  Alured  Ravenshawe),  that  the 
king  would  speedily  make  Sir  Gilbert  Fan- 
shawe of  Roehurst  in  Hants  and  Eastrigg 
in  the  shire  of  Derby  a  baron.  At  that  time 
there  was  no  actual  village  of  Eastrigg,  but 
only  a  small  hamlet  called  Fanshawe,  or,  as 
it  was  then  given,  The  Fan  Shawe.  These 
lands  belonged  to  Ravenshawe,  and  he  gave 
them  to  his  daughter  as  a  wedding  gift,  on 

268 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

the  condition  that  the  king  made  her  be- 
trothed to  a  noble,  and  that  he  became  known 
as  Baron  Fanshawe  of  Fanshawe. 

"  All  this  was  duly  done,  and  yet  there 
seems  to  have  been  deception  in  the  matter 
of  the  Gypsy  origin ;  for  about  the  time  of  the 
birth  of  an  heir  to  my  lord  of  Fanshawe,  Sir 
Alured  refused  to  hold  any  communication 
with  his  son-in-law,  or  even  to  see  his 
daughter.  A  Ravenshawe,  he  declared,  could 
have  nothing  in  common  with  a  base-born 
alien. 

"  It  was  some  years  after  this  that  strange 
rumours  got  about  concerning  not  only  Lord 
Fanshawe  but  also  The  Chase,  as  his 
castellated  manor  was  called.  A  wild  and 
barbaric  folk  sojourned  in  its  neighbourhood, 
or  in  the  adjacent  forests.  A  contagion  of 
suspicion,  of  a  vague  dread,  of  a  genuine  ani- 
mosity, spread  abroad.  Then  it  was  com- 
monly averred  that  my  lord  was  mad,  for  had 
he  not  been  heard  to  proclaim  himself  the 
Christ,  or  at  any  rate  to  speak  and  act  as 
though  he  were  no  other  than  at  least  the 
second  Christ,  of  whose  coming  men  dreamed  ? 

"  One  day  Sir  Alured  Ravenshawe  ap- 
peared in  the  camp  of  the  Egyptians,  as  the 
alien  wandering  folk  were  wont  to  be  called. 
What  he  learned  from  the  patriarch  infuriated 

269 


William  Sharp 

him  to  frenzy.  '  Let  the  dog  of  the  race  of 
Kundry  die  the  death  he  mocks/  he  cried; 
'  and  lo,  herewith  I  give  you  my  bond  that 
no  harm  shall  come  to  you  or  your  people's 
goods,  though  you  must  sojourn  here  no 
more.' 

"  Then  it  was  that  the  Egyptians  waylaid 
their  kinsman,  the  Lord  Fanshawe  of  Fan- 
shawe,  and  crowned  and  mocked  him  as  the 
Gypsy  Christ,  and  crucified  him  upon  a  great 
leafless  tree  in  the  forest  now  known  as  the 
Wood  o'  Wendray.  Thereafter,  for  a  long 
period,  the  place  knew  them  no  more.  But 
in  going  they  took  secretly  with  them  the  in- 
fant Gabriel,  only  child  of  the  House  o'  Fan- 
shawe." 

For  a  time  after  this  Fanshawe  ceased 
speaking.  We  both  sat,  our  gaze  intent  upon 
the  fire,  listening  to  the  growing  savagery  of 
the  storm  without.  Then,  without  preamble, 
he  resumed.  He  had  a  habit,  when  in  the 
least  degree  wrought  by  impatience  or  excite- 
ment, of  clasping  and  unclasping  his  hands; 
and  his  doing  so  now  was  the  more  noticeable 
because  of  the  strange  tapery  look  of  the  fin- 
gers coming  from  the  rough,  close  mittens  he 
wore. 

"  That  Gabriel  Fanshawe  never  saw  Eng- 
land again,  nor  yet  did  his  son  Gabriel.     The 

270 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

name  was  retained  privily,  though  among  his 
blood-kin  in  Austria  or  Hungary  he  was 
known  simply  as  Gabriel  Zengro,  the  kin- 
name  of  the  patriarch  who  had  adopted  him 
after  the  crucifixion  of  his  father. 

"  Long  before  his  grandson  was  a  man  well 
over  forty  years, —  and  it  was  not  till  then 
that  the  third  Gabriel  visited  England  to  see 
if  he  could  claim  his  heritage, —  the  lands  of 
Eastrigg,  the  house  and  hamlet  of  Fanshawe, 
and  Wester  Dallaway,  not  only  were  ex- 
empted from  all  claim  upon  them  by  any  one 
of  the  blood  of  Gilbert  Fanshawe,  the  barony 
in  whose  name  was  cancelled,  but  had,  in  turn, 
passed  from  the  hands  of  the  old  knight  of 
Ravenshawe  into  those  of  the  family  of  Fran- 
cis, with  whom  they  remained  until  the  fall 
of  the  Jacobite  dynasty,  after  which  they  were 
held  by  the  Hewsons,  until  (sadly  diminished) 
they  came  again  into  the  ownership  of  a  Fan- 
shawe with  my  purchase  of  them. 

"  But  though  Gabriel  Zengro  the  third 
found  that  he  had  lost  his  title  and  northern 
inheritance,  he  was  able  to  recover  possession 
of  Roehurst.  There  he  settled,  married,  and 
had  two  children  —  known  only,  of  course,  by 
his  English  surname.  In  the  fiftieth  year  of 
his  age  he  became  markedly  unpopular  with 
his  fellows.     He  was  seen  at  times  to  frequent 

271 


William  Sharp 

a  rude  and  barbaric  sect  of  vagrants,  even  to 
live  with  them;  and  the  rumour  spread  that 
his  foreign  wife  was  really  one  of  these  very 
aliens.  Then  he  was  heard  to  say  wild  and 
outrageous  things,  such  as  might  well  hang  a 
man  in  those  times.  The  upshot  was  that 
one  day  he  returned  to  his  home  no  more. 
His  body  was  found  transfixed  to  a  leafless 
tree  in  the  forest  beyond  Grailph  Moss/' 

"  Beyond  Roehurst,  you  mean  ?  "  I  inter- 
rupted. 

"  No,  I  mean  what  I  say.  His  crucified 
body  was  found  in  the  forest  beyond  Grailph 
Moss,  in  that  part  of  it  called  the  Wood  o' 
Wendray." 

"  That  is,"  I  interrupted  again,  "  where  the 
same  frightful  tragedy  had  been  enacted  in 
the  instance  of  the  victim's  grandfather?" 

"  Even  so.  But  though  Gabriel  Fanshawe 
had  been  lured  or  persuaded  or  kidnapped  out 
of  Hants,  he  was  certainly  alive  after  he 
crossed  the  Derwent,  for  a  huntsman  recog- 
nised him  among  his  people  one  day,  and  spat 
on  the  ground  to  the  north,  south,  east,  and 
west.  The  lord  of  Roehurst  disappeared  in 
this  mysterious  fashion ;  and  none  of  his 
neighbours  of  the  south  learned  aught  of  his 
doom,  but  only  his  wife  knew,  the  tidings 
having  been  conveyed  to  her  I  know  not  how. 

272 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

But  from  the  record  she  put  in  writing,  it  is 
clear  that  with  the  message  had  come  a  sum- 
mons, perhaps  a  menace;  for,  together  with 
her  two  children,  she  betook  herself  to  the 
greater  safety  of  London.  There  the  girl 
died,  calling  vainly,  and  uttering  strange 
words  in  a  tongue  no  one  spake  or  under- 
stood. But  the  boy  lived,  and  in  course  of 
years  grew  to  manhood,  and  on  the  death  of 
his  mother  went  to  reside  upon  his  own  lands. 
Nor  was  it  till  after  his  marriage,  and  the 
birth  of  a  son,  that  he  read  the  record  his 
mother  had  caused  to  be  writ,  and  so  came 
into  the  knowledge  that  has  been  the  awe  and 
terror  of  those  lineally  descended  from  him. 
"  But  neither  he  nor  his  son  came  to  any 
harm,  save  the  common  doom  of  all.  Of  his 
grandson  wild  things  were  said,  but  all  that  is 
known  certainly  is  that  he  hanged  himself 
upon  the  great  oak  in  front  of  Roehurst. 
He,  too,  however,  had  left  a  Gabriel  behind 
him  as  his  successor,  in  due  time  a  good 
knight  and  learned  man,  who  brought  up  his 
only  child  worthily  and  steadfastly.  Strange 
that  the  heir  of  two  such  loyal  and  excellent 
men  should  prove  so  feather-brained  as  to 
love  the  woods  better  than  the  streets,  and 
the  wild  people  of  the  woods  better  than 
courtiers    and    scholars!     Stranger   still    that 

273 


William  Sharp 

the  old  omens  should  recur,  till,  at  last,  Ger- 
vase  Fanshawe,  after  an  awful  curse  upon 
all  of  his  blood,  and  terrifying  blasphemies, 
openly  set  fire  to  his  manor,  and  himself, 
with  his  little  daughter  (though  the  young 
Gabriel  escaped),  was  consumed  in  the  flames. 

"  Thus,  with  tragic  alternations,  went  the 
lives  of  my  forbears,  till,  after  many  genera- 
tions of  English  Fanshawes,  the  house  of 
Roehurst  came  to  an  end  with  Jasper  Fan- 
shawe." 

At  that  moment  so  savage  an  onslaught  of 
wind  and  rain  was  made  upon  the  house,  so 
violent  a  quake  of  thunder  shook  the  walls, 
that  further  speech  was  impossible  for  the 
time.  But,  save  by  his  silence,  my  companion 
took  no  notice  of  the  tumult.  His  eyes  were 
very  large  and  wild,  and  stared  spell-bound 
upon  the  fire,  as  though  they  beheld  there  the 
tragic  issues  to  the  many  memories  or 
thoughts  which  tyrannised  his  brain. 

"  I  said  that  the  family  of  Roehurst,"  he 
resumed,  as  soon  as  comparative  quietude 
had  followed  that  wild  outburst,  though  the 
wind  moaned  and  screamed  round  the  gables 
and  among  the  old  chimneys,  and  the  rain 
slashed  against  the  window-pane  in  contin- 
uous assault,  "  I  said  that  the  family  of  Roe- 
hurst came  to  an  end  with  Jasper  Fanshawe. 

274 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

This  was  at  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. Jasper  was  the  last  of  his  race,  and, 
the  rumour  ran,  one  of  the  wildest.  Almost 
on  the  eve  of  his  wedding  it  transpired  that 
when,  in  his  youth,  he  had  gone  away  with 
and  lived  among  the  Gypsy-people,  he  had, 
as  most,  if  not  all,  of  his  progenitors,  mar- 
ried a  Romany  girl.  The  union  was  not  one 
that  would  be  recognised  by  the  English  law ; 
but  the  authentic  news  of  it,  and  the  con- 
firmed rumour  that  Squire  Fanshawe  had  a 
son  and  daughter  living,  brought  about  a  duel 
between  him  and  the  brother  of  his  betrothed. 
With  rash  folly  this  duel  was  fought  in  the 
woods,  and  witnessed  by  no  one  save  the 
Gypsy  '  messenger,'  who  kept  the  squire  al- 
ways in  view." 

"The   Gypsy-messenger,   Fanshawe ?" 
"  Yes.    That  is  the  name  sometimes  used. 
The  old  word  means  the  doom-watcher.     The 
latter  is  the  better  designation,  but  I  did  not 
care  to  use  it. 

°  Well,  my  ancestor  killed  the  man  Charles 
Norton.  The  deed  was  the  worse  for  the 
survivor,  in  that  Norton  was  the  favourite 
son  of  the  most  influential  man  in  the  country- 
side. In  a  word,  the  slaying  was  called  mur- 
der, and  Jasper  Fanshawe  was  proclaimed. 
His  sole  chance  lay  with  his  blood-folk.     The 

275 


William  Sharp 

doom-watcher  came  into  Winchester,  and 
testified  to  what  he  had  seen  while  hiding 
among  the  bracken  in  the  forest;  but  his  evi- 
dence was  overborne,  and,  rightly  or  wrongly, 
he  was  himself  clapped  into  prison  on  a 
charge  of  rick-burning. 

"  No  trace  could  be  found  of  the  fugitive, 
nor  of  the  '  Egyptians '  with  whom  he  made 
good  his  escape.  The  large  encampment  in 
Elvwick  Wood  had  broken  into  sections, 
which  had  severally  dispersed,  and  all  had 
vanished  almost  as  swiftly  and  effectually  as 
the  smoke  of  the  camp-fires. 

"  Whatever  I  may  surmise,  I  do  not  know 
for  certain  the  manner  of  Jasper  Fanshawe's 
death.  His  son,  James,  lived  for  the  most 
part  in  Hungary ;  at  other  times  in  the  remote 
lands  between  the  Caspian  and  the  Adriatic. 
He  took  in  preference  the  old  kin-name  of 
Heme,  which,  indeed,  his  father  had  adopted 
after  his  flight  from  England. 

"  This  James  Heme  lived  to  an  old  age,  and 
became  one  of  the  '  elder  brothers '  of  his 
particular  tribal  branch.  His  son  Gabriel, 
however,  left  his  kindred,  and  went  to  Vi- 
enna, where  he  studied  medicine.  There, 
while  still  relatively  a  young  man,  he  gained 
an  important  post  at  Prague,  and  in  a  year  or 
so  became  what  would  here  be  called  a  mag- 

2j6 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

istrate.  He  was  noted  for  his  severity  in 
dealing  with  all  vagrants,  but  especially  in  the 
instance  of  any  Gypsy  delinquent.  At  this 
time,  as  from  his  early  Vienna  days,  he  was 
known  as  Vansar,  a  Romany  equivalent  for 
Fanshawe.  On  three  separate  occasions  his 
life  was  attempted,  though  each  time  the 
would-be  assassin  escaped.  Gabriel  Vansar 
was  not  the  man  to  be  intimidated;  indeed, 
he  became  only  the  more  stringent  and  tyran- 
nical, so  that  soon  there  was  not  a  gypsy  en- 
campment within  a  twenty-mile  radius  of 
Prague.  In  his  thirty-sixth  year  he  was  of- 
fered a  medical  professorship  in  Vienna.  In 
that  city  he  met  a  Miss  Winstane,  a  beautiful 
English  girl,  the  sole  child  of  Edward  Win- 
stane, a  justice  of  the  peace  for  South  Hants, 
and  squire  of  Roehurst  Park  and  the  greater 
part  of  the  parish  of  Elvwick.  Miss  Win- 
stane loved  her  handsome  wooer,  and  the 
marriage  was  duly  solemnised.  Though  he 
spoke  with  a  slight  foreign  accent,  Mr.  Van- 
sar knew  his  paternal  language  thoroughly; 
for  though  '  James  Heme '  had  ceased  to  be 
English  in  all  else,  he  had  been  careful  to 
teach  his  son  his  native  tongue,  and  indeed 
always  to  speak  it  when  alone  with  him. 

"  Neither  Mr.  Winstane  nor  Winifred  Win- 
stane  ever   knew   that   Gabriel   Vansar    was 

277 


William  Sharp 

Gabriel  Heme  the  Gypsy,  or,  in  turn,  that  he 
was  the  grandson  of  that  Jasper  Fanshawe 
whose  flight  from  Roehurst  had  been  fol- 
lowed by  the  confiscation  of  his  property,  and 
its  disposal  to  Edward  Winstane  the  elder. 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mr.  Winstane  died  a 
few  months  after  the  marriage  of  his  daugh- 
ter. Gabriel  Vansar  now  relinquished  his 
post,  and  went  to  England  to  live  the  life  of 
a  country  squire.  There  he  had  three  chil- 
dren born  to  him:  two  sons  and  a  daughter. 
Naomi  was  the  youngest  by  several  years, 
and  at  her  coming  her  mother  went.  Of  the 
two  sons,  Jasper  was  the  elder,  I  the 
younger." 

CHAPTER   IV 

Although  not  taken  wholly  by  surprise,  I 
exclaimed,  "  You,  Fanshawe?  "  —  adding  that 
indeed  the  chain  of  circumstances  was  re- 
markable. 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  Well,  when  my  brother  was 
twenty-one,  and  I  nineteen,  our  father  died. 
He  had  changed  much  since  our  mother's 
decease,  and  had  become  strangely  depressed 
and  even  morose.  There  was  adequate  ex- 
planation of  this  in  the  sealed  papers  which  he 
left  to  Jasper. 

"  But  now  I  must  diverge  for  a  moment.     I 

278 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

have  something"  very  strange  to  confide  to 
you.  .  .  .  But  first  tell  me :  have  you  heard  of 
Kundry?" 

"  Of   Kundry !  "   I   repeated,  bewildered. 

"  You  love  music,  I  know ;  and  I  thought 
you  might  have  heard  of  Kundry." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  know  now.  You  mean  the 
woman  in  Parsifal?" 

"  Yes.  At  the  same  time,  Wagner  does  not 
give  the  true  legend.  He  did  not  even  know 
that  the  name  is  a  Gypsy  one,  and  very 
ancient.  I  have  heard  that  some  people  think 
it  imaginary;  others,  that  it  is  old-time 
Scandinavian.  But  our  people,  the  Children 
of  the  Wind,  are  far  more  ancient  than  any 
one  knows.  We  had  earned  that  very  name 
long  before  the  coming  of  the  Christ.  We 
had,  however,  another  name,  which,  were  I 
to  translate  literally,  would  be  something  like 
1  the  Spawn  of  Sheitan ' :  given  us  because 
we  were  godless,  and  without  belief  in  any 
after-life,  and  were  kingless  and  homeless, 
and,  compared  with  other  peoples,  lawless. 
As  we  were  then,  so  in  a  sense  we  are  now: 
for  though  we  do  not  deny  God,  we  neither 
worship  Him  nor  propitiate  Him  nor  fear 
Him;  nor  have  we  any  faith  in  a  future,  be- 
lieving that  with  the  death  of  the  body  that 
which  is  the  man  is  dead  also;  and  kingless 

279 


William  Sharp 

we  are,  save  for  the  common  overlords,  Time 
and  Death ;  and  homeless,  except  for  the  cur- 
tains of  the  forest  and  the  dome  of  the  sky, 
and  the  lamps  of  sun  and  moon;  and,  even 
as  the  wind  is  lawless  and  the  sea,  so  also  are 
we,  who  are  more  unstable  than  the  one  and 
more  vagrant  than  the  other. 

"  Nearly  nineteen  hundred  years  ago  a 
tribe  of  our  race  — '  the  first  tribe/  it  was 
called,  because  it  claimed  to  be  the  original 
stock  —  was  in  the  hill-country  beyond  Jeru- 
salem. 

"  It  was  in  the  year  of  the  greatest  moment 
to  the  modern  world :  the  year  of  the  death  of 
Jesus  of  Nazareth. 

"  I  need  not  repeat  even  in  the  briefest 
way  details  which  are  universally  familiar. 
It  is  enough  to  say  that  some  of  our  people 
were  on  the  Hill  of  Calvary  on  the  Day  of 
Anguish ;  that  among  them  was  a  beautiful 
wanton  called  Kundry;  and  that  as  the  Suf- 
ferer passed  to  His  martyrdom,  she  laughed  in 
bitter  mockery.  Turning  upon  her,  and  know- 
ing the  darkness  of  her  unbelief  and  the  evil 
of  which  she  was  the  embodiment,  the  Christ 
stopped  and  looked  at  her. 

"  '  Hail,  O  King ! '  she  laughed  mockingly. 
'  Vouchsafe  to  me,  Thy  Sister,  a  sign  that 
Thou  art  indeed  Lord  over  Fate;  but  Thou 

280 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

knowest  Thou  canst  not  do  this  thing,  and 
goest  to  Thy  death ! ' 

"Then  the  Christ  spake.  'Verily,  thou 
shalt  have  a  sign.  To  thee  and  thine  I  be- 
queath the  signs  of  my  Passion,  to  be  a  shame 
and  horror  among  thy  people,  for  evermore.' 

"Therewith  He  resumed  His  weary  way. 
And  Kundry  laughed,  and  followed.  Again, 
during  the  Agony  on  the  Cross,  she  laughed, 
and  again  at  the  last  bitter  cry  of  the  Son  of 
God;  but  in  the  darkness  that  suddenly  came 
upon  the  land  she  laughed  no  more. 

"  From  that  day  the  woman  Kundry,  whom 
some  have  held  to  be  the  sister  of  the  Christ, 
was  accurst.  Even  among  her  own  people 
she  went  veiled.  Two  children  she  bore  to 
the  man  who  had  taken  her  to  his  tent:  chil- 
dren of  one  birth,  a  male  child  and  a  woman 
child. 

"  They  were  in  their  seventh  year,  when, 
in  a  wild  Asian  land,  Kundry  came  out  among 
her  people  and  told  them  that  she,  the  Sister 
of  Christ,  had  come  to  deliver  them  this  mes- 
sage, that  out  of  the  offspring  of  her  womb 
soon  or  late  would  arise  one  who  would  be 
their  Redeemer,  who  would  be  the  Gypsy 
Christ. 

u  When  the  young  men  and  maidens  of  her 
people  mocked,  the  elders  reprimanded  them, 

281 


William  Sharp 

and  asked  Kundry  to  give  some  proof  that  she 
had  not  the  sun-fever  or  the  moon-madness, 
or  other  distemper  of  the  mind.  Whereupon 
the  woman  appalled  them  by  showing  upon 
her  hands  and  feet  the  stigmata  of  the  Cruci- 
fixion. 

"  But,  after  the  first  wonder,  and  even  awe, 
a  great  horror  and  anger  arose  among  the 
kindred.  Three  days  they  gave  her  within 
which  to  take  back  that  which  she  had  said, 
and  to  confess  the  trickery  of  which  she  had 
been  guilty,  or  at  least  to  reveal  the  way  in 
which  she  had  mutilated  herself  and  so  healed 
the  wounds.  At  sundown,  on  the  third  day, 
the  strange  and  awful  signs  were  still  there; 
nor  would  the  woman  retract  that  which  she 
had  said.  So  they  scourged  her  with  thorny 
switches,  and  put  a  rough  crown  of  them 
round  her  head,  and  led  her  to  a  place  in  the 
forest  where  there  was  a  blasted  tree.  And 
as  she  went  she  stopped  once,  and  looked  to 
see  whose  mocking  laugh  made  her  last  hour 
so  bitter;  and  lo,  it  was  the  girl  whom  she 
had  borne  in  her  womb.  Then  they  crucified 
her,  and  she  gave  up  the  ghost  in  the  third 
hour  before  the  dawn.  But  because  that  the 
children  were  so  young,  and  bore  no  mark 
of  the  Curse,  and  were  of  the  First  Lineage, 
they  were  spared.,, 

282 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

At  this  point  my  companion  ceased.  Lean- 
ing forward,  he  stared  into  the  fire  as  one  in 
a  vision.  A  long  silence  prevailed.  Outside, 
the  wind  wailed  wearily,  rising  at  times  into  a 
screaming  violence.  The  heavy  belching  roar 
of  the  thunder  crashed  upon  us  ever  and 
again,  and  even  in  the  firelit  room  with  its 
closed  curtains  the  lighting  glare  smote  the 
eyes. 

Fanshawe  apparently  did  not  hear;  perhaps 
he  did  not  see.  I  watched  him  intently,  the 
more  curiously  because  of  what  he  told  me 
and  what  I  inferred.  At  last  a  strange,  a 
terrifying  cry  startled  even  his  abstraction. 
He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  looked  wildly  at 
the  window. 

"  It  was  the  wind/'  I  said;  "  I  heard  it  like 
that  a  little  ago,  though  not  so  loudly,  or  with 
so  weird  a  scream." 

Fanshawe  made  no  reply.  After  a  pro- 
longed stare  at  the  curtained  window,  and  a 
nervous  twisting  and  untwisting  of  his  fingers, 
he  seated  himself  again.  Then,  almost  as 
though  he  had  not  broken  his  narration,  he 
resumed : 

"  The  son  and  daughter  of  Kundry  were 
spared  by  the  enemies  of  the  tribe  as  well  as 
by  their  kindred,  or  rather  they  escaped  the 
cruelty  of  the  one  as  well  as  the  fanaticism  of 

283 


William  Sharp 

the  other;  for  the  tribe  was  almost  extermi- 
nated by  the  shores  of  the  Euphrates,  and 
only  Michael  and  Olah,  the  son  and  daughter 
of  Kundry,  with  a  few  fellow-fugitives, 
reached  a  section  of  their  race  temporarily 
settled  some  fifty  miles  to  the  north. 

"  There  '  the  laughing  girl/  as  Olah  was 
called,  partly  in  memory  of  her  mother,  partly 
because  of  her  own  laughter  at  her  mother's 
death-faring,  and  partly  because  of  the  musi- 
cal mockery  wherewith  she  angered  and  de- 
lighted the  tribesmen,  brought  unhappiness 
and  ruin  among  '  the  rulers/  There  were 
three  brothers  of  the  ancient  race,  and  each 
came  to  disaster  and  death  through  Olah. 
But.  through  their  death  Michael  came  to  be 
what  you  would  call'  the  Prince  of  the  Chil- 
dren of  the  Wind.  There  was  but  one  evil 
deed  recorded  against  him  —  the  murder  of 
his  sister.  But  —  so  the  ancient  chronicle 
goes  —  this  act  was  not  out  of  cowardice  or 
malice;  it  was  to  remove  the  curse  of  the 
mother,  not  only  from  those  of  her  blood,  but 
from  the  race.  The  deed  was  done  in  the 
year  when  Michael's  wife  bore  him  their  sec- 
ond child,  a  girl.  Before  Olah's  death  —  and 
she  died  in  the  same  way  as  her  mother  —  she 
took  the  little  Sampa  in  her  arms,  and  breathed 
her  life  into  it.     On  the  day  of  the  crucifixion 

284 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

the  child  turned  in  her  sleep  in  her  mother's 
arms,  and  laughed  as  child  never  laughed  be- 
fore. 

"  The  story  thereafter  is  a  long  one.  It  is 
all  in  the  secret  record  of  our  people,  though 
known  to  a  few  only.  I  could  tell  it  all  to 
you,  with  every  name  and  every  happening, 
but  this  would  serve  no  purpose  to-night. 
Suffice  it,  that  link  by  link  the  chain  is  un- 
broken from  Michael  and  Sampa,  the  children 
of  Michael,  brother  of  Olah,  the  son  and 
daughter  of  Kundry  who  laughed  at  the  Christ 
on  Calvary,  even  unto  the  three  offspring  of 
Gabriel  Fanshawe,  who  was  called  Vansar, 
and  was  of  the  tribe  of  the  Heron." 

Could  it  be,  I  wondered,  as  I  looked  intently 
at  the  speaker,  that  this  man  before  me  was 
the  lineal  descendant  of  that  Kundry  who  had 
laughed  at  Christ;  that  he  was  the  inheritor 
of  the  Curse;  and  that  for  him,  perhaps,  as 
for  so  many  of  his  race,  the  ancestral  doom 
was  imminent?  With  an  effort  I  conquered 
the  superstitious  awe  which  I  realised  had 
come  upon  me. 

"  Do  you  mean  this  thing,"  I  said  slowly  — 
"  do  you  mean  that  you,  James  Fanshawe,  are 
the  direct  descendant  of  Kundry,  and  that  the 
Curse  lives,  and  that  you  or  some  one  of 
your  blood,  whether  of  this  or  a  later  genera- 

285 


William  Sharp 

tion,  must  *  dree  the  weird '  even  as  your  for- 
bears have  done  ?  " 

"  Even  so :  I  am  as  I  say ;  and  the  Curse 
lives ;  and  no  man  can  evade  the  doom  that  is 
nigh  two  thousand  years  old." 

I  waited  a  few  minutes,  pondering  what  best 
to  say.     Then  I  spoke: 

"  The  story  is  a  strange  and  terrible  one, 
Fanshawe.  But  even  if  exactly  as  you  have 
told  it,  surely  there  is  no  logical  necessity  why 
you  or  your  brother  or  sister  should  inherit  the 
Curse.  There  has,  by  your  own  admission, 
been  frequent  admixture  of  a  foreign  and 
Christian  strain  in  your  lineage.  Your  father 
was,  to  all  practical  intents,  no  more  a  Gypsy 
than  I  am.  He  married  an  English  girl,  and 
lived  the  life  of  a  country  squire,  and  was  no- 
wise different  from  his  kind  except  in  his 
perhaps  exaggerated  bitterness  against  Gyp- 
sies, though,  by  the  way,  not  so  different  in 
this  respect  either,  for  the  country  gentle- 
man loveth  not  the  vagrant.  In  a  word,  he 
himself,  with  all  his  knowledge  of  the  past, 
would  have  laughed  at  your  superstitious  ap- 
plication of  the  legend." 

Fanshawe  turned  upon  me,  his  great  lumi- 
nous eyes  aflame  with  the  fire  of  despair.  I 
could  see  that  he  was  in  passionate  earnest. 

"  My  sister  might  have  laughed,"  he  said  in 

286 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

a  voice  so  low  as  almost  to  be  a  whisper,  but 
with  significant  emphasis:  "tny  sister  might 
have  laughed,  not  my  father." 

*  Why,  Fanshawe,"  I  exclaimed,  startled, 
"you  do  not  mean  to  say  that  your  sister 
is  —  is— " 

"A  daughter  of  Kundry." 

I  received  the  remark  in  silence.  I  did  not 
know  what  to  think,  much  less  what  to  say. 
My  nerves,  too,  were  affected  by  the  electric 
air,  the  ever-recurrent  surge  and  tumult  of  the 
thunderstorm;  and  I  felt  bewildered  by  what 
I  heard,  by  what,  despite  its  improbability,  I 
knew  that  I  believed.  At  last  I  asked  him  to 
resume,  saying  I  knew  he  had  not  ended  what 
he  had  set  himself  to  tell  me. 

"  No,  I  have  not  ended. 

"  From  what  I  have  told  you,  will  have 
gathered  that  the  Curse  does  not  show  itself  in 
every  generation,  but  in  the  third.  I  cannot 
say  that  the  death  record  is  unvarying,  for  I 
do  not  know ;  nor  has  it  been  possible  to  trace 
every  particular  of  a  remote  ancestry.  But 
here  is  a  strange  thing:  that  in  all  but  three 
instances,  so  far  as  known,  no  son  nor  daugh- 
ter of  Kundry  has  ever  had  more  than  two 
children.  From  generation  to  generation  that 
bitter  laugh  has  never  lapsed.  From  genera- 
tion to  generation  it  has  brought  about  dis- 

287 


William  Sharp 

aster  and  shame.  Many,  even  as  I  have  done, 
have  dreamed  that  the  Curse  might  be  ex- 
piated or  outlived;  but  it  may  well  be  that 
even  as  in  every  generation  ?  the  laughing 
girl '  who  is  of  the  race  of  Kundry  mocks 
God,  so  in  every  third  generation,  till  the 
Christ  come  again  or  the  world  be  no  more, 
there  may  be  the  tragedy  of  my  ancestral 
woe. 

"  All  this  my  father  knew  ere  he  died.  He 
had  meant  to  carry  the  secret  to  the  grave, 
and  by  many  precautions  believed  he  had 
safeguarded  his  children  from  contact  with 
the  people  he  hated  and  dreaded,  though  he 
was  of  them  himself. 

"  About  the  time  when  my  father's  morose 
and  brooding  manner  was  first  noted,  my 
brother  Jasper  had  fallen  ill.  It  was  a  mys- 
terious trouble,  and  no  doctor  could  name  the 
malady.  Once,  only,  I  saw  my  father  furious, 
—  on  the  day  when  he  learned  that  there  was 
an  encampment  of  Gypsies  in  Elvwick  Woods, 
and  that  Jasper  who  was  as  impassioned  in 
religion  as  Saint  Francis  himself,  had  been 
among  the  wandering  people,  striving  to  win 
them  to  the  brotherhood  of  Christ.  Our 
father  did  not  know  that  I  and  my  sister 
Naomi  had  already  discovered  the  camp,  and 
had  been  fascinated  by  the  dark  people  and 

288 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

their  way  of  life  and  the  forest  freedom, — 
so  that  we  could  think  of  little  else,  and 
yearned  to  be  in  the  greenwood,  even  as  a 
bird  to  spread  its  wings  beyond  the  bars  of 
its  cage. 

"  It  must  have  been  immediately  after  this 
that  my  father  made  the  discovery  which 
changed  him  from  one  man  to  another. 
Neither  Naomi  nor  I  knew  aught  of  it  at  the 
time,  though  we  were  aware  that  something 
dire  had  happened,  something  of  awe,  of 
dread. 

"  For  when  Jasper  rose  from  his  bed  of 
sickness  there  were  upon  his  feet  and  upon 
his  hands  the  purple  bruise  and  ruddy  cica- 
trix of  the  great  nails  of  the  Crucifixion." 

For  a  few  moments  Fanshawe  paused,  and 
drew  a  painful,  laboured  breath,  as  of  a  man 
in  pain  or  a  great  weakness. 

"  After  our  father's  death,  Jasper  shut  him- 
self up  in  his  room,  and  would  see  no  one.  I 
used  to  creep  along  the  passage  at  dusk,  and 
listen  to  the  wild  incoherences  of  his  prayers. 
We,  Naomi  and  I,  were  very  dismal,  and  it 
was  with  relief  that,  one  evening,  we  fled  into 
the  forest  and  joined  our  friends,  more 
mysterious  and  alluring  than  ever  because  of 
the  terrifying  things  which  had  been  said  of 
them  by  him  who  was  now  dead. 

289 


William  Sharp 

"  Our  shortest  way  was  by  Elvwick  church- 
yard. Perhaps  but  for  this  we  would  not 
have  thought  of  looking  at  our  father's  grave 
again :  for  we  did  not  mean  to  return  to  Roe- 
hurst.  Hand  in  hand,  however,  we  stole  to 
the  spot  we  had  already  ceased  to  regard  with 
the  first  overwhelming  awe. 

"  The  shock  was  greater  than  even  that  of 
his  death  had  been,  for  we  saw  that  the  grave 
had  been  rifled.  The  coffin  was  visible,  but 
the  lid  had  been  forced  open.  There  was  no 
corpse  within.  Almost  too  dazed  to  be  fright- 
ened, it  was  some  time  before  I  realised  that 
the  outrage  must  have  been  committed  that 
very  night;  for  the  upturned  earth  had  re- 
tained its  fresh  smell,  an  axe  was  lying  near 
the  grave,  and  there  were  imprints  of  feet  in 
the  damp  soil. 

"  The  idea  flashed  across  my  mind  that  our 
father  had  somehow  come  to  life  again, — 
perhaps,  I  thought,  he  knew  of  our  intended 
flight  and  had  gone  back  to  Roehurst  to  frus- 
trate it, —  and  I  could  scarce  move  with  terror. 
Naomi  laughed,  a  strange  mirthless  laugh  that 
made  me  turn  as  though  to  strike  her.  Then, 
shivering  and  sobbing,  we  crawled  away.  I 
think  we  were  about  to  return  home,  when  a 
tall  figure  arose,  called  us  by  our  names,  and 
invited  us  to  come  and  see  the  merry  *  Dance 

290 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

of  the  Wolves '  around  the  camp-fire.  I  told 
the  man  —  Mat  Lee,  I  remember  his  name 
was  —  what  had  happened.  To  my  surprise 
he  did  not  appear  shocked  or  frightened.  He 
was  silent  for  a  little ;  then  in*  a  whisper  he 
urged  us  to  run  with  him  at  once,  lest  we 
should  meet  the  dead  man  on  his  way  back 
from  the  house  to  the  grave. 

"  That  is  how  my  sister  and  I  went  to  live 
among  our  unknown  kindred.  The  very  next 
day,  at  dawn,  the  camp  was  lifted;  a  week 
thence  we  were  in  Brittany.  It  was  not  till 
long  afterwards  I  learned  that  it  was  the 
tribesmen  who  had  desecrated  my  father's 
grave.  '  He  had  been  a  renegade,  and  the 
enemy  of  his  race,'  they  said,  '  and  it  was  only 
right  that  though  he  had  lived  in  honour  he 
should  afterwards  be  flung  back  to  earth  as  a 
dead  dog  is  hurled  among  the  bramble  or 
gorse.' 

"  Once,  only,  I  saw  my  brother  again.  I 
know  that  he  did  his  best  for  us.  He  traced 
our  flight,  and  kept  in  touch  with  us.  A 
1  commando '  was  sent  to  him,  forbidding  him 
to  come  near  us,  or  even  to  go  among  his 
kindred  anywhere.  I  was  told  I  was  free  to 
go  and  come  as  I  liked,  and  that  I  had  money 
always  at  my  command.  Naomi,  however, 
had  to  abide  with  the  tribe.     For  three  years 

291 


William  Sharp 

I  roamed  throughout  the  lands  east  of  Saxony 
and  Bavaria,  and  as  far  south  as  Dalmatia 
and  Roumania.  I  had  been  well  educated, 
and  was  a  student;  and  I  learned  much, 
though  in  my  own  desultory  fashion. 

"  Then  tidings  reached  me  that  Jasper  had 
disappeared.  It  was  said  that  he  had  been 
seen  in  the  shore-woods  of  Lymington,  on  the 
Solent;  and  that  he  had  been  drowned, 
while  bathing  or  boating.  An  upturned 
boat  had  been  discovered,  in  which  he  had 
certainly  been  that  forenoon,  for  he  had 
come  in  it  from  Yarmouth  in  the  Isle  of 
Wight. 

"  I  went  to  England,  and  in  due  time  en- 
tered into  possession  of  the  family  property. 
At  first  (and  this  was  when  we  met  in  Surrey) 
I  thought  of  settling  there,  for  a  time.  At 
last,  however,  I  decided  to  dispose  of  Roe- 
hurst,  and  realise  everything  that  had  come  to 
me;  and  I  had  done  this,  and  was  about  to 
leave  for  eastern  Europe,  when  a  letter 
reached  me  from  Derbyshire.  It  was  in  my 
brother's  handwriting. 

"  Bewildered,  distraught,  and  angry,  I  read 
this  strange  and  unlooked-for  communication. 
The  writer  was  alive,  and  begged  me  to  come 
and  save  him  from  the  enmity  of  the  kindred 
with  whom  he  had  at  the  end  cast  in  his  lot. 

292 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

To  narrate  briefly  what  might  well  be  told 
with  lengthy  and  surprising  detail,  I  reached 
Sheffield,  and  thence  set  out  across  the  wild 
and  remote  country  (to  me  at  that  time  quite 
unknown,  even  by  repute)  which  lies  to  the 
north  of  Dallaway  Moor  and  Grailph  Moss. 
At  the  verge  of  the  great  forest  I  was  met  by 
a  Gypsy  guide.  Late  that  night  we  reached 
the  camp.  From  an  hour  after  my  arrival  till 
the  last  hour  of  the  night  I  was  alone  with 
my  brother.  He  told  me  all  that  I  have  told 
you,  and  much  else  beside ;  also  where  his  own 
and  our  father's  papers  were  to  be  found. 
Finally,  he  declared  that  the  Curse  died  with 
himself.  He  had  had  this  revealed  to  him  in 
a  vision;  besides,  other  circumstances,  with 
which  I  need  not  weary  you,  pointed  to  this 
end.  He  had  sworn  this  to  the  tribesmen, 
and  they  had  consented  to  forgo  the  manner 
of  his  death,  if  he  would  further  renounce  all 
claim  to  be  the  Gypsy  Christ.  The  very  name 
gave  them  a  sense  of  horror  and  anger;  his 
fervent  words  of  exhortation  had  made  them 
sullen,  and  at  last  resentful;  and,  over  and 
above  this,  there  was  the  vague  race-legend 
that,  whenever  the  Gypsy  Christ  should  come, 
the  days  of  the  Children  of  the  Wind  would 
be  numbered,  and  they  would  dwindle  away 
like  the  leaves  in  October. 

293 


William  Sharp 

"  An  hour  before  dawn,  three  of  the  kin- 
dred entered  the  tent.  They  put  a  bandage 
about  my  eyes,  and  secured  my  arms.  I  heard 
them  lift  Jasper  and  put  him  upon  a  hurdle  of 
larch-boughs.  In  the  chill  air  we  went  si- 
lently forth.  In  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
we  came  to  a  standstill  upon  a  rising  ground. 
I  heard  Jasper  repeat  in  a  husky  voice  that  he 
was  not  worthy  to  be  the  Christ ;  that  he  was 
not  the  Christ;  and  that  he  prayed  that  with 
him  might  pass  away  forever  the  curse  of 
Kundry. 

"  There  was  a  brief  silence  after  that ;  then 
a  rustling  sound  in  the  air ;  then,  after  an  in- 
terval, a  thud,  thud,  thudding,  followed  by  a 
splash. 

"  '  No  man  ever  comes  back  from  the  bowels 
of  the  lead-mine,  O  James  of  the  tribe  of  the 
Heron,  of  the  race  of  Kundry,'  whispered  a 
voice  in  my  ear. 

"  When,  an  hour  later,  the  bandage  was 
taken  from  my  eyes,  I  was  on  the  moor  just 
above  the  House  o'  Fanshawe.  A  boy  was 
beside  me,  his  face  covered  with  a  slouch  hat. 
In  a  few  words,  in  our  ancient  language,  he 
told  me  that  I  was  by  the  village  of  Eastrigg, 
and  that  twenty  miles  south  of  me  lay  Fother- 
ing  Dale,  whence  I  could  easily  go  in  any  di- 
rection;   anywhere,    he    added    significantly, 

294 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

where  the  tongue  can  be  silent  and  the  mem- 
ory dead. 

"  I  made  no  inquiries  about  the  matter  I 
have  told  you.  Fortunately  I  had  informed 
no  one  of  the  letter  I  had  received.  This  let- 
ter I  burned.  But  I  ran  a  great  risk  by  re- 
turning a  few  days  later  to  Eastrigg.  The 
reason  was  this:  I  had  learned,  from  the 
papers  to  which  my  brother  had  alluded,  the 
whole  story  of  our  doomed  race,  the  race  of 
Kundry;  and  I  decided  to  try  one  more 
desperate  hazard  against  Fate,  for  I  could  not 
be  sure  that  Jasper's  death  would  remove  the 
Curse.  In  a  word,  I  decided  to  make  my 
home  in  this  place  where  my  ancestor  and 
brother  suffered  such  cruel  deaths,  and  to  die 
here;  for  I  found  in  my  papers  an  ancient 
prophecy,  both  in  English  and  Romany,  to 
the  effect  that  when  a  woman  of  the  race  of 
Kundry  would  voluntarily  sacrifice  herself  at 
the  Hill  of  Calvary,  or  when  a  man  of  the  race 
of  Kundry  would  live  and  die  at  the  place 
where  one  of  his  kindred  had  suffered  for  the 
Curse,  the  doom  might  be  removed. 

"  Thus  it  was  that  I  became  possessor  of 
this  strange  \  House  o'  Fanshawe.'  But  I  had 
something  to  do  before  I  settled  here. 

"  When  everything  that  had  to  be  done  was 
done,  I  went  abroad  to  seek  my  kindred,  and 

295 


William  Sharp 

more  particularly  my  sister  Naomi.  Perhaps 
you  guess  my  object.  I  had  more  hope 
of  success,  from  the  circumstance  that 
Naomi  was  of  a  passionately  enthusiastic 
nature;  and  that,  of  late,  she  had  even 
dreamed  of  leaving  her  people  (for  one  strain 
in  her  fought  against  the  other)  to  enter  a 
Sisterhood  of  Mercy. 

"  But  my  people  had  gone,  and  the  clues 
were  already  old  and  complicated.  I  went 
through  Hungary,  across  Transylvania,  hither 
and  thither  in  Roumania,  and  from  end  to  end 
in  Dalmatia.  Everywhere  I  was  on  their 
track,  but  the  trail  was  confused.  It  was  not 
till  I  had  gained  the  Bavarian  highlands  that 
the  conclusion  was  forced  upon  me  I  was 
being  misled.  This  became  a  certainty  after 
I  had  followed  a  sure  trail  through  Suabia  and 
so  to  the  Lands  of  the  Moselle.  At  Treves  I 
was  directed  southward,  and  went  blindly  on 
a  false  track  that  led  through  southern  France 
towards  the  Basque  provinces;  but  at  last,  at 
a  place  in  Provence  called  Aigues-Mortes,  I 
met  a  life-brother  (that  is,  one  whose  life  had 
been  saved  when  otherwise  it  would  have  been 
lost,  and  who  has  vowed  his  life-service  to  his 
saviour,  whenever  required),  whom  I  put 
upon  his  oath.  He  told  me  that  the  Zengri, 
the  Hemes,  and  two  other  tribes  were  not  in 

296 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

southern  Europe  at  all,  but  in  England.  I 
had  hit  upon  the  right  trail  between  Heidel- 
berg and  the  Mosel,  but,  when  almost  upon  my 
people  at  Treves,  had  been  skilfully  diverted. 
And  the  reason  for  this  was  the  extraordinary 
ascendency  of  my  sister.  My  heart  sank  as  I 
heard  this  tidings.  I  feared  that  the  Curse 
had  already  shown  itself;  but  my  informant 
assured  me  I  was  wrong  in  this  surmise.  It 
was  merely  that  Naomi  had  fascinated  the 
tribes-folk,  and,  particularly  since  the  death  of 
the  old  Peter  Zengro,  had  become  practically 
a  queen.     Her  word  was  law. 

"  Of  course  I  could  not  tell  the  exact  reason 
why  she  wished  to  evade  me.  Possibly  she 
feared  I  might  resent  her  ascendency,  and 
try  to  usurp  her;  possibly  she  had  some  rea- 
son to  fear  that  the  always  latent  enmity 
against  any  of  the  race  of  Kundry  would  be 
directed  against  me.  As  likely  as  not,  she 
had  several  schemes  to  fulfil,  all  or  even  one 
of  which  might  be  frustrated  by  my  appear- 
ance on  the  scene. 

"  Nevertheless,  I  decided  to  travel  straight 
to  England,  and,  as  soon  as  practicable,  gain 
an  interview  with  Naomi. 

"For    some    weeks    after    I    reached    this 
country  I  was  again  purposely  misled.     Yet 
from  one  thing  and  another  I  became  more 
297 


William  Sharp 

and  more  anxious  to  meet  Naomi  soon. 
Strange  rumours  were  abroad.  At  Ringwood 
in  the  New  Forest,  I  overheard  some  words 
by  the  camp-fire  (when  I  was  supposed  to  be 
asleep)  which  made  my  heart  shrink. 

"  Once  again  I  lost  all  clue.  Then  it  was 
that  I  remembered  Nathan  Lee, —  an  intimate 
friend  of  yours  as  well  as  of  mine, —  who, 
because  of  his  great  love  for  his  wife,  had 
sworn  never  to  leave  the  neighbourhood  of 
Glory  Woods,  where  she  was  buried.  I  trav- 
elled with  all  speed  to  Dorking.  From  Lee  I 
learned  what  I  wanted  to  know.  By  a 
strange  fatality,  Naomi  had  made  her  head- 
quarters in  the  Wood  o'  Wendray,  beyond 
Eastrigg.  But  was  it  a  blind  fatality?  That 
was  what  troubled  and  perturbed  me.  Why 
had  she,  why  had  our  particular  tribe,  settled 
at  the  accursed  spot  where  Jasper  Fanshawe 
had  met  his  fate? 

"  It  was  at  this  time  that  I  met  you  in 
Glory  Woods.  The  next  day  I  was  back  in 
the  village  of  Elvwick,  and  had  arranged  with 
Robert  Hoare,  the  late  gardener  at  Roehurst, 
and  his  wife,  to  come  and  keep  house  and 
generally  look  after  me  at  Eastrigg  Manor. 

"  Almost  every  day  after  I  was  settled  I 
rode  over  to  the  Wood  o'  Wendray;  but  the 
ban  was  upon  me,  and  I  was  warned  not  to 

298 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

approach  the  camp.  Thrice  I  set  the  ban  at 
defiance,  and  strode  into  the  camp,  but  on  no 
occasion  saw  any  sign  of  Naomi.  This  was 
the  more  strange,  as,  on  the  third  time,  I 
arrived  at  sunset,  *  the  hour  of  the  smoke/ 
when  the  gypsies  meet  round  the  fire  to  talk 
and  smoke  and  break  their  long  day-fast.  It 
was  after  this  third  visit  I  was  formally 
warned  that  my  next  defiance  of  the  ban 
would  be  my  last.  I  knew  this  to  be  no  idle 
threat.  Thereafter  I  had  to  be  more  cau- 
tious. I  no  longer  rode  across  the  moor; 
but,  either  in  the  morning  twilight  or  in  the 
late  afternoon,  wandered  here  and  there 
across  the  uplands :  sometimes  by  the  deserted 
lead-mines,  sometimes  by  the  Green  Pool, 
sometimes  even  within  the  outskirts  of  the 
Wood  o'  Wendray. 

"  I  met  you  in  Glory  Woods  in  the  spring, 
and  now  it  is  autumn.  It  was  exactly  mid- 
way in  this  time  that  I  learned  a  dreadful 
thing. 

"  One  day  a  message  came  to  me,  in  Na- 
omi's writing,  to  be  at  the  Green  Pool  beyond 
Dallaway  mine  at  dawn  on  the  morrow. 

"  I  was  there,  of  course.  The  morning 
was  raw  and  misty.  Even  at  the  margin  of 
the  Pool  I  could  not  see  the  further  side. 
Suddenly,  however,  I  heard  whispered  voices 

299 


William  Sharp 

and  the  trampling  of  feet.  I  called,  and  was 
at  once  answered.  I  was  bidden  not  to  stir 
from  where  I  was.  The  voice  was  that  of 
Naomi,  but  with  a  note  in  it  I  had  never 
heard  before. 

" '  Is  that  you,  James  Fanshawe,  of  the 
tribe  of  the  Heron,  of  the  race  of  Kundry? ' 

"  '  It  is  I,  Naomi,  daughter  of  Gabriel.  It 
is  I,  your  blood-brother.' 

"  '  Then  know  this  thing.  She  whom  you 
wedded  secretly,  Sanpriella  Zengro,  is  dead.' 

"  I  gave  a  cry  of  pain.  ...  I  have  not  told 
you  that,  during  my  last  year  with  my  people, 
I  loved  Sanpriella,  the  daughter  of  Alexander 
Zengro,  the  brother  of  Peter  Zengro,  of  the 
First  Tribe.  But  Alexander  Zengro  feared 
and  hated  any  of  the  race  of  Kundry;  so  we 
loved  secretly.  This  was  one  reason  why  I 
was  so  eager  to  find  my  people  again;  for 
Naomi  was  not,  as  you  may  have  supposed, 
my  one  quest.  I  knew  that  Sanpriella  was 
with  child,  and  J  longed  to  make  her  my  wife 
before    all    men. 

"  Ts  it  so?'  I  cried  in  a  shaking  voice, 
because  of  my  sore  pain ;  *  is  it  so,  upon  the 
oath  of  the  crossed  sticks  and  the  hidden 
way?' 

" '  I  say  it.  May  tree  fall  on  me,  and 
water  gain  upon  me,  and  the  falling  star  light 

300 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

on  me,  if  I  speak  not  truth.  Sanpriella  is 
dead.  She  lies  in  the  wood  of  Heiligenberg, 
beyond  the  Neckar.  And  now  listen  to  the 
doom,  thou  son  of  Kundry.' 

"  My  heart  leapt  at  these  ominous  words, 
doubly  ominous  and  strange  coming  from  one 
of  my  own  blood. 

"  '  Unto  Sanpriella  were  born  twin  children, 
a  boy  and  a  girl.  The  girl  lives,  though  you 
shall  never  see  her.  She  is  in  a  far  land 
from  here,  and  the  lines  of  her  life  are  al- 
ready known.  The  boy  .  .  .  the  boy  is  .  .  . 
dead. 

" '  But  know  this  thing,  James,  my  blood- 
brother.  The  doom  of  Kundry  was  upon 
him.  His  mother  hid  the  thing,  but  after  her 
death  the  Curse  was  visible.  Upon  his  hands 
were  the  bruised  wounds  of  the  nails  of  the 
Crucifixion/ 

"  With  a  shuddering  cry  I  sank  to  my 
knees.  Wildly  I  prayed,  implored  Naomi  to 
say  it  was  not  true ;  that  it  was  hearsay ;  that 
some  natural  cause  had  been  mistaken  for 
this  horrible  mystery. 

"  '  Therefore/  she  resumed  unmoved,  '  the 
ban  is  upon  you  also.  Take  heed  lest  a  worse 
thing  befall  you.  It  will  be  well  if  you  leave 
this  place  where  you  live,  and  for  ever.  Be  a 
wanderer  upon  the  face  of  the  earth;  it  will 

301 


William  Sharp 

be  for  you  safer  so:  but  avoid  the  trail  of 
the  Children  of  the  Wind  as  you  would  the 
pestilence.     And   now  —  farewell ! ' 

"  '  My  child  lives  —  my  daughter  lives ! '  I 
cried  despairingly. 

"  There  was  a  long  silence.  I  called  again 
and  again,  but  met  with  no  response.  Thick 
as  the  mist  was,  I  raced  round  the  Pool  like  a 
greyhound.  There  was  no  one  near.  I  ran 
out  upon  the  moor,  but  there  I  was  like  a 
derelict  boat  in  wide  ocean  in  a  dense  fog.  I 
could  see  nothing,  hear  nothing.  All  that  day 
the  mist  hung  impermeable;  all  that  day  I 
abode  where  I  was." 

Once  more  a  long  silence  fell  upon  Fan- 
shawe.  Outside,  the  shrieking  of  the  wind 
was  appalling.  The  rain  slashed  against  the 
house  as  though  all  the  sluices  of  the  thunder- 
storm were  concentrated  there.  The  thunder 
was  no  longer  overhead,  but  a  raucous  blast  — 
distinct  from  the  blind,  furious  gale  —  moved 
to  and  fro  like  a  beast  of  prey.  I  was  over- 
come by  the  strange  and  terrible  tale  I  had 
listened  to.  Then  and  there,  to  that  wild  ac- 
companiment, it  all  seemed  deadly  true,  and 
as  inevitable  as  Destiny. 

With  an  abrupt  gesture,  Fanshawe  sud- 
denly resumed: — 

302 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

"  On  the  eve  of  that  day  I  walked  swiftly 
across  the  moor.  The  sun  was  almost  on  the 
horizon  as  I  reached  the  eastern  edge  of 
Grailph  Moss.  Suddenly,  I  stopped  as  one 
changed  into  stone.  Black  against  the  sunset- 
light  I  saw  a  tall  figure  stand;  with  head 
thrown  back,  and  arms  wide  outstretched  from 
the  sides.  Was  it  a  vision  of  the  Christ? 
That  was  the  thought  which  came  to  me. 
Then  the  figure  disappeared,  absorbed  in  the 
mist  over  Grailph  Moss.  I  turned  and  went 
home.     It  was  Naomi  I  had  seen. 

"  The  next  evening  I  was  in  the  same  place, 
at  the  same  hour. 

"  Again  I  saw  Naomi,  in  that  sunflame 
Crucifixion.  Once  more  she  disappeared,  and 
across  the  Moss.  I  knew  of  no  encampment 
there,  but  unquestionably  she  had  moved 
swiftly  westward. 

"  On  the  third  afternoon  I  was  there  again, 
earlier.  This  time  I  had  with  me  my  white 
bloodhound.  We  crouched  in  good  hiding 
till  Naomi  passed.  I  made  Grailph  sniff  her 
track.  WThen  the  sun  set,  she  disappeared  as 
before.  I  held  Grailph  in  leash,  and  followed 
swiftly.  In  less  than  an  hour  I  came  upon 
her.  She  was  standing  in  a  waste  place,  near 
the  centre  of  a  broken  circle  of  tall  slabs. 
These  were  the  Druidic  Stones,  known  almost 

303 


William  Sharp 

to  none  save  the  most  daring  explorers  of  the 
Moss,  for  they  are  in  a  region  beset  with 
quagmires. 

"  She  was  speaking,  with  outstretched  arms, 
as  if  in  prayer.  There  was  no  one  visible. 
She  was,  I  saw,  in  a  trance,  or  ecstacy. 

"  When,  suddenly,  she  descried  me,  she 
leapt  like  a  deer  on  to  a  narrow  dry  path  be- 
yond the  stones.  She  would  certainly  have 
evaded  me  but  for  Grailph.  The  hound  slid 
beyond  like  running  water  in  a  rapid.  In  less 
than  a  minute  he  had  headed  her  off. 

"  When  I  came  up  with  her,  I  expected 
either  furious  denunciation,  or  at  least  a  sum- 
mary command  that  I  should  return  straight- 
way. She  did  no  more  than  look  at  me  in- 
tently, however.  She  had  already  forgotten 
what  had  lain  between  us.    She  was  possessed. 

" '  Naomi/  I  said  simply. 

" '  I  am  Naomi,  blessed  among  women/ 

"  I  stared,  perplexed. 

" '  Why  do  you  follow  me  here  to  spy  me 
out?  Beware  lest  God  strike  thee  for  thy 
blasphemy/ 

w  '  My  blasphemy,  Naomi  ? ' 

"  '  Even  so.  I  come  here  to  meet  the  spirit 
of  God/ 

"  *  Tell  me,  my  sister,  is  this  true  what  I 
have  heard :  that  you  are  with  child  ? ' 

304 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

"  Her  eyes  flamed  upon  me.  But  her  voice 
was  cold  and  quiet  as  she  replied, — 

"  '  It  is  true.  The  Lord  hath  wrought  upon 
me  a  miracle.  I  have  immaculately  con- 
ceived, and  the  child  I  shall  bear  will  be  the 
Gypsy  Christ, —  the  long  dreamed-of ,  the  long 
waited-for  second  Christ/ 

"  '  This  is  madness.  Come  with  me ;  come 
home  with  me,  Naomi/ 

" '  The  green  earth  is  my  home ;  and  the 
wind  is  my  brother,  and  the  dust  my  sister.' 

"'Come!' 

"  Then  in  a  moment  her  whole  look  and 
mien  changed.  The  flame  that  was  in  her 
eyes  seemed  to  come  from  her  very  body. 
Her  voice  now  was  loud,  raucous,  imperious. 
The  hound  whined,  and  sidled  to  my  feet. 

"  '  I  am  the  Sister  of  Jesus,  I  am  no  other 
than  Kundry,  deathless  in  my  woe  until  these 
last  days.  I  am  the  Mother  of  the  Christ 
that  is  to  be.  And  you,  you  son  of  my 
mother's  womb,  you  are  ordained  to  be  my 
prophet!  Go  forth  even  now:  go  unto  our 
people  in  the  woods :  declare,  declare,  declare, 
to  them,  to  all,  that  the  Gypsy  Christ  cometh 
at  last!' 

"  I  was  shocked,  terrified  even.  But  after 
a  throbbing  silence  I  spoke,  and  firmly : 

" '  This   is  madness,   Naomi.     Already  the 

305 


William  Sharp 

Curse  is  heavy  enough  upon  us.  Do  you  not 
know  that  our  brother  Jasper  was  done  to 
death  yonder  because  of  this  doom  of  ours; 
that  because  of  this  awful  malison  on 
the  race  of  Kundry  .  .  .  that  ...  my  little 
son.  .  .  .' 

"  ■  I  know  all, —  what  has  been,  what  is, 
what  shall  be.  Once  more  I  ask  you:  will 
you  be  the  prophet  of  the  Gypsy  Christ? ' 
"  *  No,  never,  so  help  me  God !  ■ 
" '  This  is  the  fourth  day  of  this  Week  of 
the  Miracle.  To-morrow  thou  hast;  and  the 
day  after;  and  yet  again,  another  day.  Re- 
pent while  there  is  yet  time.  But  if  thou  dost 
not  repent,  thine  end  shall  be  as  that  of  thy 
dog.  An  awful  sign  shall  be  with  thee  this 
very  night;  yet  another  shall  be  with  thee  on 
the  morrow;  and  on  the  third  thou  shalt  re- 
ceive the  message  of  the  Cross.  Then  thou 
shalt  waver  no  more,  for  whom  all  wavering 
is  for  ever  past.     And  now,  begone ! ' 

"  Broken  in  spirit,  I  turned.  When,  a  hun- 
dred yards  thence,  I  looked  back,  there  was 
no  trace  of  Naomi  anywhere. 

"  That  night  I  had  the  first  sign." 

Here  Fanshawe  ceased  for  a  moment,  and 

wiped  the  cold  sweat  from  his  forehead  with  a 

hand   tremulous   as   a    reed.     His   voice   had 

sunk  into  a  dull  monotony,  to  me  dreadful. 

3o6_ 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

"  On  the  day  following,  I  had  the  second 
sign.  Drops  of  blood  oozed  from  the  red 
figure  of  the  Christ  that  you  have  seen  in  my 
room.  Then  you  came.  To-day  I  have  had 
the  message  of  the  Cross.  You  saw  it  your- 
self :  a  green  cross  on  the  portal  of  the  house. 

"  Then  at  last  my  terror  overmastered  me. 
Also,  I  yet  hoped  to  prevail  with  Naomi. 
Thus  it  was  that  when  I  left  you  abruptly  this 
afternoon  I  rode  across  the  moor  to  the  Wood 
o'  Wendray.  I  reached  the  camp,  but  only 
the  ashes  of  dead  fires  were  there.  Yet  I 
know  my  people  wait,  and  Naomi  has  my  life 
in  the  hollow  of  her  hand." 

But  here  I  broke  in  eagerly. 

"  Come,  Fanshawe,  come  with  me  at  once, 
the  first  thing  to-morrow.  You  must  not  be 
here  another  day.  It  is  madness  for  you  to 
remain.  Why,  in  another  week  you  would 
persuade  yourself  that  you  too  had  inherited 
this  so-called  curse !  " 

"Look!"  he  shouted,  springing  to  his  feet, 
tearing  the  coverings  from  his  hands,  and 
holding  forth  the  palms  to  me,  rigid,  testify- 
ing, appalling:    "Look!  Look!  Look!" 

And,  as  I  live,  I  saw  upon  the  hands  the 
livid  stigmata  of  the  Passion! 

With  a  cry,  I  repelled  him.  A  great  horror 
seized  me.     But  the  next  moment  a  greater 

307 


William  Sharp 

pity  vanquished  my  weakness.  He  had  al- 
ready fallen.  I  took  him  in  my  arms,  and 
laid  him  back  on  his  chair. 

James  Fanshawe  was  dead. 

For  some  minutes  I  stared,  paralysed,  upon 
the  still  face  that  had  just  been  so  wrought 
with  a  consuming  frenzy.  A  deep  awe  came 
upon  me.  I  crossed  the  room,  threw  back 
the  window,  and  looked  out.  Grailph  the 
hound  was  not  there.  Nor  could  he  have 
been  lurking  near,  for  at  that  moment  I  saw 
a  man  glide  swiftly  across  the  yard,  and  dis- 
appear into  the  gloom. 

The  rain  was  over,  the  thunder  rumbled  far 
across  the  moors;  the  wind,  too,  had  veered, 
and  I  heard  it  crying  like  a  lost  thing  in  the 
deep  ravine  of  the  Gap. 

I  stayed  quietly  beside  my  friend,  keeping 
vigil  till  the  dawn.  While  it  was  still  dark,  I 
went  again  to  the  window,  and  looked  out. 
On  the  moor  I  could  hear  two  larks  singing 
at  a  great  altitude.  Doubtless  they  had  soared 
to  meet  the  dawnlight. 

I  thought  of  Naomi,  whose  madness  would 
surely  bring  upon  her,  and  that  soon,  the 
awful  ancestral  doom.  Yet  of  this  I  knew  I 
should  hear  nothing.  The  Children  of  the 
Wind  have  a  saying:  The  dog  barks  by  day, 
and  the  fox  by  night ;  but  the  Gypsy  never  lets 

308 


The  Gypsy  Christ 

any  one  know  whence  he  comes,  where  he  is, 
or  whither  he  goes. 

Sometimes  the  horror  of  it  all  makes  me 
long  to  look  upon  it  as  an  evil  dream.  Has 
the  dreadful  Curse  at  last  worked  itself  out? 
With  a  sudden  terror,  I  remember  at  times 
that  James  Fanshawe  had  two  children  born 
to  him.  What  of  the  girl?  Did  she,  too, 
laugh  when  her  kindred  led  Naomi  to  her 
doom?  Even  now  doth  she  move  swift  and 
sure  towards  that  day  when  she  shall  go  quick 
with  child ;  when  she  or  the  child  or  the  child's 
child  shall  arise  and  say,  "  Behold  the  Gypsy 
Christ  has  come  at  last !  " 


309 


The  Lady  in  Hosea 


THE  LADY  IN  HOSEA 


"And  she  shall  follow  after  her  lover,  but  she 
shall  not  overtake  him;  and  she  shall  seek  him,  but 
shall  not  find  him;  then  shall  she  say,  I  will  go  and 
return  to  my  first  husband;  for  then  was  it  better 
with  me  than  now ! " — Hosea. 

When  John  Dorian,  with  the  help  of  the 
poker  and  the  flaming  coals,  had  demolished 
Dream  No.  liii.  and  last,  he  lit  a  cigar.  Then 
he  lay  back  in  a  deep,  padded  arm-chair,  in 
order  to  enjoy  to  the  full  his  evening  paper. 

The  effort  had  been  exhausting.  He  was  a 
sentimentalist,  and  had  been  wont  to  mark  his 
love-letters,  after  they  had  reached  the 
tenth,  as  "Dream  i.,"  "Dream  n.,"  and 
so  on.  True,  he  had  not  gone  through  the 
whole  fifty-three  that  night.  The  little  india- 
rubber  bands  which  had  been  round  Claire's 
letters  lay  beside  the  ash-tray  on  the  mantel- 
piece, like  an  angler's  heap  of  worms,  dis- 
carded because  of  their  premature  death;  but 
the  pile  could  not  have  consisted  of  more  than 
about  a  score  and  a  half.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
Dreams  xv.  to  xxi.  had  escaped  the  ruthless 

313 


William  Sharp 

poker.  Covered  witL  kisses,  warmed  with 
sighs,  they  had  been  cremated  in  the  late  days 
of  June.  They  were  —  I  should  say  had 
been  —  animated  by  aspirations  of  soul-union, 
assurances  concerning  Immortality,  and  per- 
fectly lucid  and  frank  expositions  of  a  vivid 
passion.  In  a  word,  they  were  so  explicit 
that  John  Dorian  had  found  himself  forced 
to  submit  them  to  a  double  committal:  first, 
to  his  heart  (as  he  designated  his  memory), 
and  then  to  the  fire.  Again,  Dreams  xlv.  to 
li.  had,  though  autumnal,  endured  a  like  fate. 
True,  they  were  without  any  remarks  about 
Immortality;  on  the  other  hand,  the  union  of 
mind,  soul,  and  body,  particularly  the  third 
partner  in  the  trinity,  was  emphasised  in  them 
with  ardour,  eloquence,  and  a  pleading 
yearning. 

By  an  accident,  five  missives  from  another 
lady  had  been  tied  up  with  those  from  Claire. 
These  had  been  discovered  one  Sunday  when, 
unwell  with  a  chill,  and  brooding  upon  the 
immortality  of  a  great  passion,  Dorian  had 
permitted  himself  the  dangerous  luxury  of  a 
reperusal  of  his  love-letters.  Only  skilled 
chefs  should  attempt  pleasant  surprises  in  the 
way  of  rechauffes. 

In  the  peaceful  quiet  of  that  Sabbath  after- 
noon thirteen  epistles  had  been  done  to  death : 

3H 


The  Lady  in  Rosea 

seven,  too  passionate,  from  Claire;  five,  too 
financially  exigent,  from  Mademoiselle  Pha- 
lene. 

Thus  it  was  that  on  this  October  night  John 
Dorian,  on  demolishing  the  discarded  raiment 
of  his  Dreams,  confided  to  the  appreciative  se- 
crecy of  his  fire  no  more  than  four-and-thirty 
burning  missives.  The  epithet  is  hyperbolical ; 
but  there  is  no  doubt  about  its  actuality  in 
the  past  participle. 

A  few  weeks  ago  "  Dream  liii."  would 
have  meant  to  him  no  more  than  the  fifty- 
third  kiss  he  had  received  from  Claire.  It 
would  have  been  simply  a  delightful  link  be- 
tween Ffty-two  and  Fifty-four.  But  when 
liii.  is  indorsed  "  and  last,"  the  number  stands 
forth  from  its  fellow-figures,  the  elect  of 
Fate. 

An  effort?  Yes;  it  had  been  an  effort  to 
read  through,  latterly  to  glance  at,  those 
thirty-four  remnants  of  an  undying  passion. 
Dorian  had  two  small  ivory  figures  by  the 
sculptor  Dampt.  They  ornamented  his  twin 
bookcases  by  the  fireside;  above  the  shelves 
to  the  right,  "  Aspiration,"  with  upraised  arms 
and  trance-wrought  face;  above  the  shelves 
to  the  left,"  Consummation,"  supine,  satisfied, 
with  wearied  eyes. 

He  looked  at  the  little  group  to  the  left, 

315 


William  Sharp 

while  Dream  Lilt  emitted  the  unpleasant 
odour  of  waste  paper  aflame.  He  smiled  un- 
wittingly, then,  wittingly,  sighed.  Then  he 
lit  his  cigar,  seated  himself,  and  leisurely  un- 
folded the  news-sheet. 

The  "  leader "  interested  him.  Half-way 
down  the  column  on  the  ensuing  page,  "  The 
Casket  of  Pandora,"  he  read :  "  The  lover  is 
ever  a  sophisticator." 

"  True,"  he  muttered  indolently,  while  he 
stretched  his  feet  nearer  the  fire-glow ;  "  how 
true !  one  sophisticates  oneself  with  dreams  of 
impossible  virtues  and  charms." 

"  Sophisticator !  "  he  resumed.  "  Let  me 
see  what  the  dictionary  has  to  say,  if  there  is 
such  a  word." 

With  a  slight  effort  he  obtained  the  volume 
he  sought  from  the  swing-bookcase  near  his 
chair. 

"  Ah !  here  we  are :  sophistical,  sophisticate, 
sophisticator.  H'm.  .  .  .  'Sophisticator:  one 
who  adulterates,  debases,  or  injures  the  purity 
of  anything/  " 

The  dictionary  must  have  become  limp  from 
long  disuse,  for  in  a  few  seconds  it  slipped 
to  the  floor,  and  lay  there,  unheeded,  in  a  dead 
faint. 

A  hunted  look  had  come  into  John  Dorian's 
eyes,  but  it  passed.     For  some  time  he  stared 

316 


The  Lady  in  Hosea 

blankly  into  the  fire.  Then  suddenly  he  re- 
sumed his  perusal  of  the  Quadrant  Gazette. 

With  a  yawn,  he  skipped  the  "  Casket  of 
Pandora  "  column.  "  These  paragraphists," 
he  muttered,  "  either  talk  rubbish,  or  bore  one 
with  their  rehashed  hash." 

There  was  wind  without.  It  came  down 
the  street,  at  times,  blowing  a  loud  clarion:  a 
minute  later  it  would  swirl  away  again,  with 
a  rattling  fanfaronade  among  the  chimney- 
tops.  Now  and  again  a  flurry  of  rain  slapped 
the   window-panes. 

It  was  certainly  comfortable  by  the  fire. 
Possibly  it  was  sheer  tampering  with  luxury 
that  made  Dorian  rise  and  wander  restlessly 
about  the  room. 

The  rumble  of  the  Piccadilly  omnibuses  out- 
side emphasised  the  cheerful  quietude  of  the 
room. 

Its  solitary  occupant  wavered  between  a 
cabinet  in  one  corner  filled  with  blue  china, 
and  in  another  corner,  an  escritoire.  This 
lured  him.  He  seated  himself  in  front  of  it, 
opened  a  drawer,  and,  taking  out  and  unfold- 
ing a  diary,  glanced  at  page  after  page.  An 
entry  in  August  arrested  his  attention. 

"August  21.— Still  here  at  Llandllnys.  Did  not 
leave  on  Monday,  as  Cecil  T.  was  summoned  to 
Chester  on  some  magisterial  matter.    He  expected 

317 


William  Sharp 

to  be  back  that  night,  but  wired  that  he  would  be 
detained  two  or  three  days,  and  hoped  I  would  pro- 
long my  stay.  I  did.  Claire  brought  me  the  mes- 
sage. Her  eyes  were  lovely.  She  knew  I  would 
stop.  What  days  these  have  been!  Never,  never, 
shall  I  forget  them!  What  a  deep  joy  it  is  that 
she  and  I  are  so  absolutely  one  with  the  other!  To 
think  of  it:  she,  Claire;  I,  John  Dorian,  at  one  for 
ever  and  ever!  There  can  be  no  end  to  a  passion 
such  as  ours.  It  is  the  nobler,  the  stronger,  be- 
cause of  our  great  renunciation.  Neither  she  nor 
I  will  leave  Cecil  Trevor  a  mourner.  Indeed,  it 
would  be  cruel  if,  having  by  undreamed-of  hazard 
taken  royal  possession  of  his  wife's  heart,  I  should 
also  break  up  his  home  by  removing  her  to  another 
clime  as  my  wife.  No,  we  will  be  strong.  Love  has 
been  compassionate,  and  given  each  unto  each. 
What  need  to  go  to  the  last  extremity? — a  bitter  one 
at  the  best.  No;  there  will  be  no  elopement.  But 
I  am  hers  and  she  is  mine  in  life  and  death.  Ah, 
Death!  No!  no!  no  death  for  us!  For  all  eternity 
our  love  shall  endure.  She  and  I,  I  and  she,  to- 
gether for  ever  and  ever." 

Dorian  closed  the  diary  with  a  snap. 
Rising,  he  replaced  the  book,  and  then  walked 
slowly  to  the  window.  He  drew  back  the 
blind.  The  cloud-rack  was  broken  for  an 
interval;  overhead,  like  dark  frozen  water 
between  ice-banks,  he  could  see  a  width  of 
sky.  A  planet,  a  score  or  more  of  stars, 
glistered  icily. 

"  For  all  eternity,',  he  muttered ;  "  I  and 

3i8 


The  Lady  in  Rosea 

she,  she  and  I,  for  ever  and  ever."  For  a 
few  minutes  he  was  silent,  motionless,  pro- 
foundly intent.     Then  he  smiled. 

"  Ah,  I  was  always  a  star-gazer ! " 

With  that  he  went  back  to  his  chair  in 
front  of  the  fire,  took  up  a  new  magazine  in 
lieu  of  the  newspaper,  and  made  ready  to 
enjoy  himself. 

Doubtless  he  would  have  succeeded,  but 
fate  willed  otherwise.  The  tap  of  a  postman 
was  the  particular  disguise  taken  by  Nemesis. 

"  A  letter  for  you,  sir,"  said  his  man,  hpld- 
ing  out  a  salver  on  which  lay  a  business-look- 
ing envelope. 

"  H'm.  Just  wait  a  moment,  George.  Ah ! 
—  ah  1  it's  from  Anderson  and  Anderson.  .  .  . 
George,  are  you  there?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  George,  if  a  lady  should  call  for  me  to- 
night or  to-morrow,  you  are  to  tell  her  I  am 
not  here.  Say  —  oh !  let  me  see  —  that  she  is 
just  too  late;  that  I  left  this  morning  for 
Paris,  en  route  for  the  East.  Tell  her  I 
won't  be  back  again  for  years." 

"If  she  wants  me  to  take  or  send  you  any 
message  ?  " 

"  In  that  case  tell  her  that  you  will  cere- 
tainly  do  so;  only,  add  that  it  had  better  not 
be  urgent,  as  you  don't  expect  to  join  me  in 

319 


William  Sharp 

the  East  till  after  I  telegraph  to  you  from  — 
let  us  say  Egypt." 

"  Very  good,  sir." 

The  man  hesitated,  fidgeted,  but  thought 
better  of  his  intent,  whatever  it  was.  As  soon 
as  he  had  gone  Dorian  eagerly  scanned  the 
note  he  had  received.  It  was  from  a  firm  of 
solicitors,  and  was  to  the  effect  that  it  was 
true  Mrs.  Cecil  Trevor  had  left  her  home; 
that  she  had  called  to  ask  his,  John  Dorian's, 
address ;  and  that  to-morrow  if  not  to-day,  or 
the  day  after  if  not  to-morrow,  she  would 
certainly  obtain  it  from  some  one. 

It  is  a  common  mistake  to  say  that  Nemesis 
never  blunders.  That  policeman  of  the  gods 
can,  and  does,  sometimes  appear  on  the  scene 
too  soon,  or  too  late,  or  otherwise  inoppor- 
tunely. He  came  down  Piccadilly  a  second 
time  this  evening,  disguised  this  time  as  Claire 
Trevor. 

Dorian  was  half-way  through  his  second 
cigar  when  he  heard  a  hansom  stop  beneath 
his  windows.  This  was  followed  by  a  tap  at 
the  front  door.  To  the  tap  succeeded  the 
opening  of  the  door;  then  a  sustained  con- 
versation. 

"  I  am  no  coward,"  said  John  Dorian,  "  but 
I  will  retire  —  ah !  —  to  the  bathroom ! " 


320 


The  Lady  in  Hosea 
ii 

Mrs.  Trevor,  as  she  sat  before  the  fire  in 
her  room  in  the  Whitehall  Hotel,  did  not 
know  whether  to  laugh  or  cry.  This  was  not 
because  she  was  either  amused  or  chagrined, 
but  because  she  believed  her  heart  was  broken. 
There  are  women,  as  there  are  men,  who, 
fronting  irredeemable  disaster,  with  a  heart 
almost  callous  on  account  of  its  pain,  scarce 
know  whether  laughter  or  sobs  shall  best  ease 
them. 

Claire  Trevor  had  taken  the  step  which  ex- 
perience tells  should  never  be  taken:  that  is, 
she  had  burned  the  ship  of  her  married  life. 
All  manner  of  misadventure  may  be  wrought 
against  that  vessel,  but  it  should  never  be 
burned;  at  least,  not  until  another  has  been 
boarded  by  invitation,  and  a  licence  as  first 
mate  duly  obtained.  In  other  words,  she  had 
not  only  left  her  home  and  husband,  but  had 
also  been  rash  enough  to  leave  a  letter  behind 
her  for  Cecil  Trevor.  It  told  him  that  she 
loved,  and  was  loved  by,  John  Dorian;  that 
she  could  not  live  without  the  said  John,  and 
that  it  would  be  criminal  on  her  part  to  re- 
main a  day  longer  with  him,  Cecil,  as  his  wife. 
Lest  there  should  be  any  mistake,  she  had 
added  a  few  particulars. 

321 


William  Sharp 

She  had  no  children.  She  did  not  love 
Cecil  Trevor:  but  she  had  not  suspected  this 
until  —  well !  The  suspicion  developed  into  a 
fact  when,  after  a  few  months'  acquaintance- 
ship, John  Dorian  read  her  his  two-act  play. 
For  Better,  for  Worse.  At  the  moving  senti- 
mentality which  did  duty  as  a  dramatic  close, 
he  had  informed  her  that  she  was  the  heroine, 
Helen,  and  he  Paris,  the  hero. 

In  the  process  she  lost  a  few  ideals.  These 
are  seldom  missed  at  first,  and  it  was  some 
time  before  she  realised  that  they  were  gone. 
She  sighed,  with  true  feeling,  but  said  to  her- 
self that  she  would  be  brave. 

One  idea,  however,  she  did  hold,  not  only 
dear  and  intimate,  but  inviolate.  This  was 
the  chivalrous  love,  the  unalterable  devotion, 
of  John  Dorian. 

It  had  not  been  without  difficulty  that  she 
obtained  his  new  address.  Circumstances  had 
kept  them  apart  for  three  months,  and  in  that 
time  he  had  shifted  his  quarters  more  than 
once. 

For  a  woman  without  much  intuition,  it  is 
to  her  credit  that  she  was  not  only  unde- 
ceived by  the  instructed  lie  of  Dorian's  valet, 
but  at  once  guessed  that  her  lover  wanted 
"  Finis  "  to  be  written  to  their  romance.  She 
had  little  imagination,  and  she  did  not  under- 

322 


The  Lady  in  Rosea 

stand  how  this  finality  could  be ;  but  she  felt 
it  in  the  very  core  of  her  heart.  The  tragi- 
comedy had  fizzled  out  while,  having  left 
without  an  attempt  to  expostulate  with,  or 
even  force  an  interview  upon,  her  lover,  she 
drove  back  to  her  hotel. 

For  a  long  time  she  had  stared  into  the  fire, 
till  her  eyes  ached.  At  last  she  rose,  and  took 
two  photographs  from  her  leather-covered 
desk.  The  insolent  light  of  the  gas  flamed 
upon  her.  By  a  vague  instinct  she  turned  it 
lower,  and  also  avoided  a  glimpse  of  herself 
in  the  adjacent  mirror. 

There  was  ample  light  to  see  the  photo- 
graphs by.  One  was  of  a  man  about  five-and- 
thirty,  tall,  elegant,  graceful  even,  evidently 
dark,  with  oval  dusky  eyes,  short  hair  with  a 
wave  in  it  at  the  sides,  clean  contours,  a 
sensitive  nose  and  mouth,  a  self-conscious 
smile  on  the  face,  the  hands  artistic,  but  with 
the  thumbs  noticeably  lifted  backward.  A 
good-looking  man  of  the  world,  in  most  judg- 
ments, no  doubt.  To  a  close  and  keen  ob- 
server everything,  from  the  thumbs  to  the 
pointed  ears,  betokened  the  refined  and  cul- 
tured animal  which  had  the  arrogance  to 
believe  that  it  was  kin  to  Apollo,  and  the 
blindness  not  to  see  that  it  was  of  the  brother- 
hood of  Pan  the  Satyr.     All  the  possibilities 

323 


William  Sharp 

of  the  epileptic  slept  in  that  comely  exterior. 
The  life  in  him  was  phosphorescent  fungus  in 
a  grave. 

Mrs.  Trevor  took  the  ordinary  view.  The 
photograph  pained  her  by  its  tantalising  truth. 
Long  and  earnestly  as  she  looked  at  it,  she 
stared  longer  and  more  intently  at  the  other. 
It  represented  a  young  woman  who  could  not 
have  passed  her  twenty-seventh  year;  blonde, 
with  a  graceful  figure.  That,  really,  was  all 
you  or  I  might  discern  were  we  to  come  upon 
the  likeness  in  an  album.  Claire  Trevor, 
however,  saw  more.  She  evoked  a  woman 
whose  tender  heart  gave  a  lovely  life  to  the 
blue  eyes,  an  exquisite,  unwhispered  whisper 
to  the  lips.  She  saw  the  rippling  fair  hair 
moving  in  the  warm  breath  of  her  lover. 
Within,  she  beheld  a  strong  and  heroic  mind 
fronting  the  Shadow  of  Fate  —  an  undaunted, 
unselfish,  greatly  daring  Soul.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  what  she  saw  were  merely  some  rain- 
bow shimmerings  from  a  land  where  she  had 
never  fared.  A  great  number  of  other  peo- 
ple's thoughts  occupied  almost  every  avail- 
able cell  in  her  brain,  and  the  accommodation 
for  her  own  mind  was  almost  as  limited  as 
that  dusty  back-parlour  wherein  her  soul 
(without  a  capital)  lay  bedridden  and  blind. 

The  past  tense  should  have  been  more  em- 

324 


The  Lady  in  Hosea 

phasised.  Probably  that  evening  a  few  more 
cells  had  been  opened,  and  others  summarily 
usurped  by  tyrannical  new-comers.  As  for 
the  invalid  in  the  back-parlour,  it  had  doubt- 
less risen,  and  was  fumbling  about  in  the 
dark. 

When  Mrs.  Trevor  seated  herself  again,  she 
took  Dorian's  photograph  and  laid  it  between 
two  coals  which  glowed  vehemently,  despite 
the  corroding  ash  at  their  base.  The  card 
crackled,  shrivelled,  and  became  a  malodorous 
nonentity.  A  minute  or  two  elapsed  before 
Claire's  photograph  was  likewise  cremated. 
It  fell  sideways,  and  in  the  spurt  of  redeeming 
flame  she  read  the  date  of  the  night  when  she 
had  given  herself  to  John  Dorian  —  a  night 
which  had  succeeded  an  evening  of  singular 
beauty,  wherein  the  stars  moved  with  a  polar 
magnificence  of  light,  and  yielded  in  glory 
only  to  the  promise  of  eternity  which  the  un- 
controlled passion  of  two  hearts  discerned  in 
the  frosty  indifference  of  those  remote  lu- 
minaries. 

Even  a  cremated  passion  does  not  add  fuel 
to  a  fire.  Perhaps  the  fire  resents  the  in- 
trusion of  a  quenched  flame,  particularly  if  it, 
too,  has  been  slowly  dying.  At  any  rate,  the 
photographs  of  two  aspirants  for  immortality 
ended  in  smoke.    To  expedite  the  burial  Mrs. 

325 


William  Sharp 

Trevor  stooped,  to  utilise  the  poker.  As  she 
reached  forward,  a  locket  swung  from  her 
bosom,  struck  the  mantelpiece,  and  hung  open, 
its  two  sides  outspread,  as  though  it  were  a 
metallic  butterfly,  the  emblem  of  hope. 

She  relinquished  her  intention,  though  as  a 
matter  of  fact  the  service  of  the  poker  was 
not  now  needed. 

Instead,  she  sat  back  and  stared  at  the 
miniature  in  the  locket.  It  was  an  excellent 
likeness  of  Cecil  Trevor.  Looking  at  it,  she 
could  see  every  feature  of  her  husband:  his 
rather  furrowed  brow,  fairly  well  marked ; 
his  heavy  eyebrows  and  calm  hazel  eyes;  his 
heavy,  straight  nose,  with  its  rigid  nostrils; 
his  slightly  curly  brown  beard,  unbroken  from 
the  ear-level,  and  in  the  vogue  of  Henry  VIII, 
his  large,  ill-formed,  but  kindly  mouth;  his 
coarse  jowl  and  dogged  chin.  She  knew  that 
he  was  taller  than  the  broad  squire  suggested 
in  the  miniature,  and  also  that  his  voice  was 
softer  than  a  stranger  would  infer.  And  as 
she  looked  she  believed  she  saw  something  in 
the  eyes  she  had  never  seen  before. 

With  a  cry  she  rose,  then  sank  to  her  knees 
and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  while  her  hair 
swept  the  chair  like  a  creeper  over  a  ruin. 

The  fire  had  almost  subsided  into  ash  when 
she  arose  and  slowly  began  to  undress.  She 
pondered  the  advisability  of  a  prayer,  but,  on 

326^ 


The  Lady  in  Rosea 

second  thoughts,  decided  not  to  intrude  her- 
self just  then  on  an  offended  and  probably 
resentful  Providence.  There  would  be  ample 
time  on  the  morrow,  when  she  would  feel 
more  purged  of  her  sin. 

"  I  will  go  back,"  she  whispered  to  herself. 
She  lay  down  in  the  vague  discomfort  of  a 
new  loneliness.  "  I  will  go  back.  Perhaps 
he  will  forgive ;  perhaps  he  will  let  me  atone ; 
perhaps  he  loves  me  still." 

The  invalid  inmate  of  the  back-parlour 
murmured  indistinctly,  "  Oh,  what  a  fool, 
what  a  foo1  you  have  been !  " 

in 

When  Claire  Trevor  reached  the  station  for 
Llandllnys,  it  was  to  learn  that  she  was  a 
widow. 

During  the  long  drive  she  wept  sincerely 
for  her  resurrected  affection,  so  untimely 
slain. 

Did  Cecil  know  all?  Do  the  dead  see,  un- 
derstand ?  The  thought  troubled  her ;  but  she 
did  not  disguise  from  herself  that  she  was 
more  anxious  as  to  how  much  he  knew  when 
he  was  alive. 

"  Death,  the  result  of  an  accident  in  the 
hunting-field."  That  was  what  she  had  been 
told.  The  accident  had  occurred  in  the  after- 
noon of  the  morning  when  she  had  taken  her 

327 


William  Sharp 

fatal  step.  There  was  just  a  chance  Mr. 
Trevor  had  not  seen  the  insensate  letter  she 
had  written. 

That  drive  aged  Mrs.  Trevor.  She  felt  as 
though  she  were  driving  away  from  her  youth. 

At  the  threshold  of  her  home  —  if  it  still 
was  her  home  —  she  was  met  by  the  vicar. 
His  manner  was  deeply  sympathetic  and  con- 
siderate—  so  considerate  that  she  inferred 
safety  so  far.  The  vicar's  profound  respect 
indicated  her  acceptance  in  his  eyes  as  the 
heiress  of  Llandllnys. 

Claire  Trevor  never  quite  forgave  herself 
because  when  she  looked  upon  the  corpse  of 
her  husband  she  saw  only,  thought  of  only, 
dreaded  only,  the  letter  he  held  in  his  folded 
hands. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ? M  she  whispered 
hoarsely   to   Mr.    Barnby. 

"  Your  last  letter,"  the  vicar  replied  with 
tender  unction.  "  It  was  brought  to  him  be- 
fore the  end  by  the  servant,  who  had  forgot- 
ten to  deliver  it  before  his  master  went  out 
riding.  He  was  too  weak  to  open  it.  He 
kissed  it  just  before  he  died.  When  he 
pressed  it  against  his  heart,  the  heart  had  al- 
ready stopped.  Take  it,  my  dear  madam, 
take  it;  it  will  be  a  lovely  memento  for  you 
for  the  rest  of  your  life." 

328 


PART  III 

Ecce  Puella 

and  Other  Prose 

Imaginings 


To  The  Woman  of  Thirty 


ECCE  PUELLA 

"A  Dream  of  Fair  Women:  Every  man  dreams 
this  dream.  With  some  it  happens  early  in  the  teens. 
It  fades,  with  some,  during  the  twenties.  With 
others  it  endures,  vivid  and  beautiful  under  grey 
hairs,  till  it  glorifies  the  grave." — H.  P.  Siwaarmill. 


The  beauty  of  women:  could  there  be  any 
theme  more  inspiring?  There  is  fire  in  the 
phrase  even.  But,  as  with  Love,  Life,  Death, 
the  subject  at  once  allures  and  evades  one.  It 
would  be  easier  to  write  concerning  it  a  bulky 
tome  than  a  small  volume,  and  that  again 
would  be  less  difficult  than  a  sketch  of  this 
kind.  Who  can  say  much  about  love,  with- 
out vain  repetitions?  Only  the  poet  — 
whether  he  use  pigments  or  clay,  words  or 
music  —  can  flash  upon  us  some  new  light,  or 
thrill  us  with  some  new  note,  or  delight  us 
with  some  new  vision.  There  is  nothing  be- 
tween this  quintessential  revelation  and  that 
unaccomplished  and  for  ever  to  be  unaccom- 
plished History  of  Love  which  Charles  No- 
dier  said  would  be  the  history  of  humanity 
and  the  most  beautiful  book  to  write. 

333 


William  Sharp 

What  mortal  can  say  enough  about  the 
beauty  of  woman  to  satisfy  himself?  How 
much  less  can  he  say  enough  to  satisfy  others  ? 

"  For  several  virtues  have  I  liked  several 
women " :  and  we  may  adapt  Shakespeare's 
line,  and  say  that  for  several  kinds  of  beauty 
have  men  admired  women  as  different  from 
each  other  as  a  contadina  of  the  Campagna 
and  an  Eskimo  Squaw. 

I  realise  my  inadequacy.  I  would  have 
my  readers  understand  that  if  I  were  to 
write  as  I  feel,  I  would  speak  not  wisely  but 
too  well!  Fortunately,  I  cannot  rhapsodise: 
but  for  this,  I  might  win  honour  in  the  eyes 
of  ladies,  and  concurrently  a  very  natural  out- 
pouring of  envy  and  all  uncharitableness  on 
the  part  of  my  fellow-men.  Personally,  I 
would  have  no  hard-and-fast  dogmas.  Fair 
women,  be  they  tall  or  short,  dark  or 
fair,  vivacious  or  languorous,  active  or  in- 
dolent, plump  or  fragile,  if  all  are  beautiful 
all  are  welcome.  You,  camerado,  may  in- 
cline towards  a  blonde,  with  hair  touched 
with  gold  and  eyes  haunted  by  a  living 
memory  of  the  sky,  small  of  stature,  and 
with  hands  seductively  white  and  delicate:  I, 
on  the  other  hand,  may  prefer  a  brunette, 
with  hair  lovely  with  the  dusk  and  fragrance 
of    twilight,    with    eyes    filled    with    strange 

334 


Ecce  Puella 

lights  and  depths  of  shadow,  tall,  lissom,  and 
with  the  nut-brown  kisses  of  the  sun  just 
visible  on  cheek  and  neck,  and  bonnie  deft 
hands.  Or,  it  may  be,  I  find  Ideala  in  a  sweet 
comeliness:  a  face  and  figure  and  mien  and 
manner  which  together  allure  a  male  mind 
searching  for  the  quietudes  rather  than  for 
the  exaltations  of  passionate  life.  You,  how- 
ever, may  worship  at  another  shrine,  and  seek 
your  joy  in  austere  beauty,  or  in  that  which 
seems  wedded  to  a  tragic  significance,  or  that 
whose  very  remoteness  lays  upon  you  an  irre- 
sistible spell.  There  be  those  who  prefer 
Diana  to  Venus,  who  would  live  with 
Minerva  rather  than  Juno:  who  would  rather 
espouse  Syrinx  than  Semele,  and  prefer  the 
shy  Arethusa  to  the  somewhat  heedless  Leda. 
Who  shall  blame  a  man  if  he  would  rather 
take  to  wife  Lucy  Desborough  than  Helen  of 
Troy:  and  has  any  one  among  us  right  to 
lift  a  stone  against  him  who  would  bestow 
the  "  Mrs."  at  his  disposal  upon  Dolly  Var- 
den  rather  than  upon  Cleopatra? 

After  all,  are  the  poets  and  painters  the 
right  people  to  go  to  for  instruction  as  to 
beauty?  Most  of  them  are  disappointed  mar- 
ried men.  Every  man  loves  three  females: 
woman  (that  is,  his  particular  woman),  as  he 
imagines  her  to  be;  woman,  as  he  finds  her; 

335 


William  Sharp 

and  woman,  carefully  revised  for  an  improb- 
able new  edition. 

II 

In  the  beginning,  said  a  Persian  poet,  Allah 
took  a  rose,  a  lily,  a  dove,  a  serpent,  a  little 
honey,  a  Dead  Sea  apple,  and  a  handful  of 
clay.  When  He  looked  at  the  amalgam  it 
was  Woman.  Then  He  thought  He  would 
resolve  these  constituents.  But  it  was  too 
late.  Adam  had  taken  her  to  wife,  and  hu- 
manity had  begun.  Woman,  moreover,  had 
learned  her  first  lesson:  conveyed  in  the 
parable  of  the  rib.  Thus  early  did  the  male 
imagination  begin  to  weave  a  delightful  web 
for  its  own  delectation  and  advantage. 
When,  after  a  time,  the  daughters  of  Eve  con- 
vinced the  sons  of  Adam  that  a  system  of 
Dual  Control  would  have  to  be  put  into  effect, 
there  was  much  questioning  and  heartburn- 
ing. Satan  availed  himself  of  the  oppor- 
tunity. He  took  man  aside,  and  explained  to 
him  that  woman  had  been  reasonless  and  pre- 
cipitate, that  she  had  tempted  him  before  she 
was  ripe,  and  that  he  was  a  genial  innocent 
and  very  much  to  be  pitied.  Further,  he 
demonstrated  that  if  she  had  only  waited  a 
little,  all  would  have  been  well.  But,  as  it 
was,  the  rose  had  a  thorn,  the  lily  had  a  ten- 

336 


Ecce  Puella 

dency  to  be  fragile,  the  dove  had  not  lost  its 
timidity,  the  serpent  had  retained  its  guile,  its 
fangs,  and  its  poison,  the  honey  was  apt  to 
clog,  the  Dead  Sea  apple  was  almost  entirely 
filled  with  dust,  and  the  clay  was  of  the  tough, 
primeval  kind,  difficult  to  blend  with  advan- 
tage, and  impossible  to  eliminate. 

From  that  day,  says  the  Persian  poet, 
whose  name  I  have  forgotten,  man  has  been 
haunted  by  the  idea  that  he  was  wheedled 
into  a  copartnery.  In  a  word,  having  taken 
woman  to  wife,  he  now  regrets  that  he  com- 
mitted himself  quite  so  early  to  a  formal 
union.  From  his  vague  regrets  and  un- 
satisfied longings,  and  a  profound  egotism 
which  got  into  his  system  during  his  bachelor 
days  in  Eden,  he  evolved  the  idea  of  Beauty. 
This  idea  would  have  remained  a  dream  if 
Satan  had  not  interfered  with  the  sugges- 
tion that  it  was  too  good  to  be  wasted  as  an 
abstraction.  So  the  idea  came  to  be  realised. 
There  was  much  hearty  laughter  in  conse- 
quence, in  "  another  place."  Seeing  what  a 
perilous  state  man  had  brought  himself  into, 
Allah  had  pity.  He  took  man's  conception 
of  Beauty  —  which  to  His  surprise  was  in 
several  respects  much  superior  to  Eve  —  and, 
having  dissipated  it  with  a  breath,  rewove  it 
into  a  hundred  lovely  ideals.     Then,  making 

337 


William  Sharp 

of  the  residue  a  many-coloured  span  in  the 
heavens,  He  sent  these  back  to  Earth,  each  to 
gleam  thenceforth  with  the  glory  of  that  first 
rainbow. 

It  is  a  fantasy.  But  let  us  thank  that 
Eastern  poet.  Perhaps,  poor  dreamer,  he 
went  home  to  learn  that  unpunctual  spouses 
must  expect  reproaches  in  lieu  of  dinner,  or 
even,  it  may  be,  to  find  that  his  soul's  Sul- 
tana had  eloped  with  a  more  worldly  admirer 
of  Eve.  Zuleika,  if  he  found  her,  perhaps  he 
convinced.  For  us  he  has  put  into  words, 
with  some  prolixity  and  awkwardness  no 
doubt,  what  in  a  vague  way  we  all  feel  about 
the  beauty  of  women. 

For  in  truth  there  is  no  such  abstraction 
as  Womanly  Beauty.  Instead,  there  is  the 
beauty  of  women. 

Every  man  can  pick  and  choose.  There 
are  as  many  kinds  of  women  as  there  are  of 
flowers:  and  all  are  beautiful,  for  some 
quality,  or  by  association.  It  is  well  to  ad- 
mire every  type.  Companionship  with  the  in- 
dividual will  thus  be  rendered  more  pleasing! 
As  the  late  Maxime  du  Camp  said  some- 
where :  "  In  the  matter  of  admiration,  it  is 
not  bad  to  have  several  maladies."  There  are 
men  who,  in  this  way,  are  chronic  invalids. 
Women  are  very  patient  with  them. 

338 


Ecce  Puella 

I  do  not  agree  with  an  acquaintance  of 
mine  who  avers  that  his  predilections  are 
climatic  in  their  nature.  If  he  is  in  Italy  he 
loves  the  Roman  contadina,  or  the  Sicilian 
with  the  lissom  Greek  figure;  if  in  Spain,  he  ^ 

thinks  flashing  black  eyes  and  coarse  hair  finer 
than  the  flax  and  sky-blue  he  admired  so 
much  in  Germany;  if  in  Japan,  he  vows  with 
Pierre  Loti  that  Madame  Chrysantheme  is 
more  winsome  than  the  daintiest  Parisienne; 
if  in  Barbary,  he  forgets  the  wild-rose  bloom 
and  hillwind  freshness  of  the  English  girl, 
whom,  when  he  roams  through  Britain,  he 
makes  the  Helen  to  his  Paris,  forgets  for  the 
sake  of  shadowy  gazelle-eyes,  for  languorous 
beauty  like  that  of  the  lotus  on  warm 
moonlight  nights.  I  wonder  where  he  is 
now.  He  has  been  in  many  lands.  I  know 
he  has  loved  a  Lithuanian,  and  passioned  for 
a  Swede:  and  when  I  last  saw  him,  less  than 
a  year  ago,  he  said  his  ideal  was  a  Celtic 
maighdeann.  Perhaps  he  is  far  distant,  in 
that  very  Cathay  which  I  remember  his  say- 
ing was  a  country  to  be  taken  on  trust,  as  ^ 
one  accepts  the  actuality  of  the  North  Pole: 
if  so,  I  am  convinced  he  is  humming  blithely 

"  She  whom  I  love  at  present  is  in  China : 
She  dwells,  with  her  aged  parents, 

339 


William  Sharp 

In  a  tower  of  fine  porcelain, 

By  the  yellow  stream  where  the  cormorants  are."  * 

This  is  too  generously  eclectic  for  me,  who 
am  a  lover  of  moderation,  and  a  monogamist 
by  instinct.  Nevertheless,  I  can  appreciate 
this  climatic  variability.  I  am  no  stickler  for 
the  supremacy  of  any  one  type,  of  the  civilised 
over  the  barbaric,  of  the  deftly  arrayed  over 
the  austerely  ungarbed !  With  one  of  the  au- 
thors of  he  Croix  de  Berny  I  can  say: 
"  Dress  has  very  little  weight  with  me.  I 
once  admired  a  Granada  gipsy  whose  sole  cos- 
tume consisted  of  blue  slippers  and  a  neck- 
lace of  amber  beads." 

Nowadays,  we  have  to  admire  the  nude  only 
in  sculpture,  and  that  antique.  M.  Berenger 
in  Paris,  Mr.  Horsley,  R.  A.,  and  a  Glasgow 
bailie  have  said  so. 

Well,  well,  it  may  be  so.  But  there  are  un- 
regenerate  men  among  us.  Perhaps  this  new 
madness  of  blindness  will  supersede  the  old 
intoxication.     Truly,  I  am 

"  Oft  in  doubt  whether  at  all 
I  shall  again  see  Phoebus  in  the  morning, 
Or  a  white  Naiad  in  a  rippling  stream — " 

*  "  Celle  que  j'aime  a  present,  est  en  Chine; 
Elle  demeure,  avec  ses  vieux  parents, 
Dans  une  tour  de  porcelaine  fine, 
Au  fteuve  jaune  ou  sont  les  cormorans." 

(Theophile  Gautier.) 

340 


Ecce  Puella 

but  I  have  no  doubt  whatever  that  others  will. 
Meanwhile  we  can  dream  of  youth :  the  youth 
of  the  past,  the  eternal  youth,  and  the  hour- 
long  youth  we  have  known  ourselves.  It  is 
one  of  the  sunbright  words.  These  five  let- 
ters have  an  alchemy  that  can  transmute  dust 
and  ashes  into  blossoms  and  fruit.  For  those 
who  know  this,  the  beauty  of  the  past  is 
linked  to  the  present  tense:  the  most  ancient 
things  live  again,  and  the  more  keenly.  Anti- 
quit  as  soeculi  inventus  mundi. 

Well,  sufficient  unto  this  present  is  the  ques- 
tion of  the  nude !  Let  those  who  will,  ignore 
it.  Whatever  these  may  say,  there  is  always 
this  conviction  for  loyal  Pagans  to  fall  back 
upon  —  in  the  words  of  George  Meredith  — 
"  the  visible  fair  form  of  a  woman  is  heredi- 
tary queen  of  us." 


in 

What  a  blight  upon  ordered  sequence  in 
narrative,  phrase  dear  to  the  grammarian,  dis- 
cursiveness is!  Yet  I  cannot  help  it:  to  bor- 
row from  George  Meredith  on  the  subject  of 
fair  women,  from  Lucy  Desborough  and 
Rhoda  Fleming  to  Clotilde  von  Rudiger  and 
Diana  Warwick  and  Aminta  Ormont,  is  as 
seductive  as  the  sound  of  the  sea  when  one 

341 


William  Sharp 

is  panting  on  the  inland  side  of  a  sand-dune. 
In  sheer  self-defence  I  must  find  an  apothegm 
so  good  that  it  would  be  superfluous  to  go 
further.  This  is  irrational  perhaps :  but  then 
with  Diana  I  find  that  "to  be  pointedly  ra- 
tional is  a  greater  difficulty  to  me  than  a  fine 
delirium."  There  are  Fair  Women,  and  fair 
sayings  about  fair  women,  in  each  of  these 
ever  delightful  twelve  novels.  Epigram- 
matically,  The  Egoist  and  Beauchamp's  Ca- 
reer would  probably  afford  most  spoil  to  the 
hunter:  but  here  in  Richard  Feverel  is  the 
quintessential  phrase  for  which  we  wait. 
"  Each  woman  is  Eve  throughout  the  ages!' 

This  might  be  the  motto  for  every  Passion- 
ate Pilgrim.  For,  truly,  to  every  lover  the 
woman  of  his  choice  is  another  Eve.  He  sees 
in  her  the  ideal  prototype.  It  is  well  that  this 
is  so :  otherwise  there  would  be  no  poetry,  no 
fiction,  and  scarce  any  emotional  literature 
save  passionate  Malthusian  tractates ! 

But  now  let  me  be  frank.  Out  of  all  the 
pictured  fair  women  I  have  ever  seen  is  there 
one  who  has  embodied  my  ideal  of  womanly 
beauty?  This  is  a  question  that  most  of  us 
put  to  ourselves,  with  the  same  apparent  ar- 
rogance, as  if  any  one  individual's  opinion 
had  the  least  value  for  others,  or  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  the  Beauty  of  Woman. 

34? 


Ecce  Puella 

No.  Though,  in  pictures,  I  have  seen  a 
few  beautiful,  and  many,  lovely,  and  scores  of 
comely  and  handsome  women,  in  no  instance 
did  I  encounter  one  of  whom  in  any  conceiv- 
able circumstances  I  could  say  "  There:  she  is 
my  Eve,  past,  present,  and  for  ever ! " 

"  I  am  always  waiting,"  wrote  Amiel,  "  for 
the  woman  and  the  work  which  shall  be 
capable  of  taking  entire  possession  of  my 
soul,  and  of  becoming  my  end  and  aim." 
Yes,  with  Stendhal,  we  all  wait :  and  one  man 
in  a  million  is  rewarded  with  '*  the  woman," 
to  one  man  in  a  generation  comes  "  the  work." 

What  is  wanting?  Must  the  glow  of  per- 
sonal romance  be  present  before  a  beautiful 
woman  can  embody  for  us  the  Beauty  of 
Woman  ? 

"Araminta's  grand  and  shrill, 
Delia's  passionate  and  frail, 
Doris  drives  an  earnest  quill, 
Athanasia  takes  the  veil; 
Wiser  Phyllis  o'er  her  pail, 
At  the  heart  of  all  romance 
Reading,  sings  to  Strephon's  flail, 
'  Fate's  a  fiddler,  Life's  a  dance.' " 

Cannot  Araminta  and  Delia  be  beautiful, 
though  Strephon  may  prefer  Phyllis?  Or  is 
beauty  in  women  as  incalculable  a  quantity  as 
the   delight   men   take  .in    women's    names? 

343 


William  Sharp 

There  are  names  that  stir  one  like  a  trumpet, 
or  like  the  sound  of  the  sea,  or  like  the  ripple 
of  leaves:  names  that  have  the  magic  of 
moonlight  in  them,  that  are  sirens  whose 
witchery  can  in  a  moment  enslave  us.  What 
good  to  give  here  this  or  that  sweet  name: 
each  man  has  in  him  his  own  necromancy 
wherewith  to  conjure  up  vague  but  haunting- 
sweet  visions.  Equally,  if  all  Fair  Women 
of  the  Imagination  or  of  Life  have  names  we 
love,  there  are  designations  that  seem  like 
sacrilege,  that  grate,  that  excruciate.  There 
is  a  deep  truth  in  Balzac's  insistence  on  the 
correspondence  between  character  and  no- 
menclature. Still,  there  are  many  debatable 
names.  "  Anna,"  for  example,  is  not  offen- 
sive, yet  I  "  cannot  away  with  it,"  though 
tolerant  of  "Annie."  But  hear  what  Mr. 
Henley  has  to  say :  — 

"Brown  is  for  Lalage,  Jones  for  Lelia, 

Robinson's  bosom  for  Beatrice  glows, 

Smith  is  a  Hamlet  before  Ophelia. 

The  glamour  stays  if  the  reason  goes: 

Every  lover  the  years   disclose 

Is  of  a  beautiful  name  made  free. 

One  befriends,  and  all  others  are  foes: 

Anna's  the  name  of  names  for  me ! " 
*  *  *  * 

"  Fie  upon  Caroline,  Jane,  Amelia  — 
These  I  reckon  the  essence  of  prose !  — 

344- 


Ecce  Puella 

Mystical  Magdalen,  cold  Cornelia, 
Adelaide's  attitudes,  Mopsa's  mowes, 
Maud's  magnificence,  Totty's  toes, 
Poll  and  Bet  with  their  twang  of  the  sea, 
Nell's   impertinence,   Pamela's  woes ! 
Anna's  the  name  of  names  for  me. 

But  to  return:  everywhere  pictured  Ideala 
has  evaded  me.  It  has  been  a  vain  quest, 
though  again  and  again  I  have  caught  just  a 
glimpse  of  her,  a  vanishing  gleam,  a  fugitive 
glance.  The  other  day  I  was  startled  by  the 
sudden  light  in  the  face  of  Hoppner's  "  Mir- 
anda," though  when  I  looked  again  I  was 
no  more  than  haunted  by  an  impalpable  sug- 
gestion. In  the  beauty  of  the  flowing  dra- 
pery, in  the  breadth  of  that  sea  frothing  at 
her  feet,  somewhere  there  was  an  evanescent 
grace  which  belonged  to  Ideala.  Yet  it  was 
not  quite  hers  after  all,  any  more  than  the 
indwelling  beauty,  seen  perhaps  only  for  a 
moment,  in  the  eyes,  or  revealed  in  a  momen- 
tary light  upon  the  face,  was  hers  —  the 
beauty,  the  momentary  light  in  Miranda,  in 
the  gipsy-beauty  of  her  of  the  Snake  in  the 
Grass,  in  one  or  two  other  portraits  of  a  more 
delicately  refined  loveliness,  or  of  the  higher 
beauty,  that  of  the  beautiful  mind  visible 
through  the  fair  mask  of  the  flesh.  Long 
ago,    says    Thoreau    in    Walden,    "  I    lost    a 

345 


William  Sharp 

hound,  a  bay-horse,  and  a  turtle  dove,  and  am 
still  on  their  trail."  I  think  She  whom  we 
seek  rides  afar  on  that  fleet  horse,  espied 
for  ever  by  that  flying  dove,  for  ever  pur- 
sued by  that  tireless  hound. 

No  doubt  it  is  absurd  to  expect  to  find 
Ideala,  even  among  portraits  of  women  who 
may  have  been  her  kindred  in  the  eyes  of 
one  or  two  persons,  who  could  discern  not 
only  the  outward  beauty,  but  the  inner  radi- 
ance. Moreover,  the  company  is  commonly 
not  that  amid  which  one  would  pursue  one's 
quest.  Diane  de  Poitiers,  Nell  Gwynne,  Mrs. 
Jane  Middleton,  the  Countess  of  Grammont, 
the  Comtesse  de  Parabere,  "  Perdita,"  Lady 
Hamilton,  Mile.  Hillsberg,  Lady  Ellenbor- 
ough,  Mrs.  Grace  Dalrymple  Elliot,  and 
Elizabeth  Foster,  Duchess  of  Devonshire, 
were  one  and  all  charming  as  well  as  beauti- 
ful women.  But  presumably  Charles  did  not 
discern  his  soul's  counterpart  in  Nell  Gwynne, 
nor  the  Regent  Philippe  in  "  la  belle  Para- 
bere," nor  the  amorous  George  in  "  Perdita," 
nor  either  Prince  Schwartzenberg  or  the 
Arab  Sheik  in  Lady  Ellenborough. 

In  order  to  judge,  one  must  know.  We, 
who  do  not  know  these  Fair  Women  of  the 
past,  cannot  judge.  We  must  each  seek  an 
Ideala  of  our  own.     After  all,  as  some  one 

346 


Ecce  Puella 

has  said,  women  are  like  melons:  it  is  only 
after  having  tasted  them  that  we  know 
whether  they  are  good  or  not. 

We  must  be  content  with  some  one  short 
of  Perfecta.  Unequal  unions  are  deplorable. 
Moreover,  it  is  very  unsatisfactory  to  emulate 
the  example  6i  the  celebrated  Parisian  bou- 
quineur,  who  worried  through  life  without  a 
copy  of  Virgil,  because  he  could  not  succeed 
in  finding  the  ideal  Virgil  of  his  dreams. 
Ideala  is  as  the  wind  that  cometh  and  goeth 
where  it  listeth.  Rather,  she  may  be  likened 
to  the  Wind  for  ever  fleeting  along  "  that 
nameless  but  always  discoverable  road  which 
leads  the  wayfarer  to  the  forest  of  beautiful 
dreams." 

Moreover,  She  may  appear  anywhere,  at 
any  time.  Remember  Campion's  "  She's  not 
to  one  form  tied."  Possibly,  even,  she  may 
be  called  Nell  Gwynne;  for  to  every  Nell 
there  will  be  a  lover  to  whom  she  will  be 
Helen. 

"Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 

Like  those  Nicean  barks  of  yore, 
That  gently,  o'er  a  perfumed  sea, 
The  weary,   wayworn   wanderer   bore 
To  his  own  native  shore. 

"Lo!  in  yon  brilliant  window  niche, 
How  statue-like  I  see  thee  stand, 

347 


William  Sharp 

The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand ! 
Ah,  Psyche,  from  the  regions  which 
Are  Holy  Land !  " 


It  is  a  pity  that  where  a  Helen  is  so  evident 
to  one  passionate  pilgrim,  she  should  be 
merely  Nell  to  the  world  in  general.  But  so 
it  is;  and,  alas!  the  very  last  person  to  per- 
ceive the  connection  with  Psyche  is  often 
Nell  herself.  Poets  get  little  gratitude,  as 
a  rule,  for  the  glorification  they  effect.  Poor 
bards !  they  are  apt  to  address  as  Ideala  those 
who  would  rather  be  called  Nell,  and  dedicate 
their  deepest  life-music  to  a  mistress  who, 
while  flattered,  really  understands  neither 
the  poetry  nor  the  poet,  and  can  be  more 
eloquent  over  a  gift  of  gloves  than  over  a 
work  of  genius.  Thus  hath  it  ever  been; 
doubtless  thus  it  shall  continue.  As  long  as 
there  are  fair  women,  there  will  be  strong 
men  ready  to  lose  their  highest  heritage  for 
a  mess  of  pottage.  As  among  the  innumer- 
able kinds  of  flowers  where  the  bee  may  roam 
and  gather  honey  there  is  that  flower  of 
Trebizond  whose  fatal  blooms  allure  the  un- 
witting insect  to  madness  or  death,  so  among 
women  there  are  some  who  irresponsibly  lure 
men  to  sure  calamity.  Who  was  the  man 
who  said  that  fair  women  are  fair  demons 

348 


Ecce  Puella 

who  make  us  enter  hell  through  the  door  of 
paradise?  Doubtless  he  loved  a  flower  of 
Trebizond.     Idealists,  ponder! 

Nevertheless,  though  we  would  not  nat- 
urally seek  Ideala  among  the  Nell  Gwynnes, 
it  would  be  a  mistake  to  rise  to  the  high 
remote  air  where  dwell  the  saints  who  have 
not  yet  transcended  mortality.  A  touch  of 
sin  must  be  in  that  man  whom  we  hail  as 
brother,  that  women  we  greet  as  sister. 
There  was  shrewd  worldly  wisdom  in  the  re- 
mark of  a  French  prince,  that,  however 
virtuous  a  woman  may  be,  a  compliment  on 
her  virtue  is  what  gives  her  the  least  pleas- 
ure. Concurrently  we  may  take  that  in- 
structive passage  in  Cunningham's  British 
Painters  where  we  learn  how  Hoppner  com- 
plained of  the  painted  ladies  of  Sir  Thomas 
Lawrence ;  that  they  showed  "  a  gaudy  dis- 
soluteness of  taste,  and  sometimes  trespassed 
on  moral  as  well  as  professional  chastity/' 
while  by  implication  he  claimed  for  his  own 
portraits  purity  of  look  as  well  as  purity  of 
style :  with  this  result  —  "  Nor  is  it  the  least 
curious  part  of  this  story,  that  the  ladies, 
from  the  moment  of  the  sarcasm  of  Hopp- 
ner, instead  of  crowding  to  the  easel  of  him 
who  dealt  in  the  loveliness  of  virtue,  showed 
a    growing    preference    for    the    rival    who 

349 


William  Sharp 

1  trespassed  on  moral  as  well  as  on  profes- 
sional chastity/  " 

Women  should  not  be  wroth  with  men  be- 
cause that  each  male,  sound  of  heart  and 
brain,  is  a  Ponce  de  Leon.  Parenthetically, 
let  me  add  —  on  the  authority  of  Arsene 
Houssaye !  —  that  all  the  energies  of  Crea- 
tion do  not  succeed  in  producing  throughout 
the  whole  world  one  hundred  grandes  dames 
yearly.  And  how  many  of  these  die  as  little 
girls  —  how  few  attain  to  M  la  beaute  souv- 
eraine  du  corps  et  de  Tame  ?  "  "  Voila,"  he 
adds  —  "  voila  pourquoi  la  grande  dame  est 
une  oiseau  rare.  Ou  est  le  merle  blanc  ? " 
"The  Quest  of  the  White  Blackbird  ":  fair 
women,  ponder  this  significant  phrase.  We 
all  seek  the  Fountain  of  Youth,  the  Golden 
Isles,  Avalon,  Woman  (as  distinct  from  the 
fairest  of  women),  Ideala,  or  whatever  sun- 
bright  word  or  words  we  cap  our  quest  with. 
If  wives  could  but  know  it,  they  have  more 
cause  to  be  jealous  of  women  who  have  never 
lived  than  of  any  rival  "young  i'  the  white 
and  red."  Yet,  paradoxically,  with  a  true 
man,  a  wife,  if  she  be  a  true  woman,  need 
never  turn  her  back  upon  the  impalpable 
Dream;  for,  after  all,  it  is  her  counterpart, 
a  rainbow-phantom. 

Fair  women,  all  men  are  not  travailing  with 

350 


Ecce  Puella 

love  of  you!  There  are  Galileos  who  would 
say  e  pur  se  muove,  though  Woman  suddenly 
became  passee,  nay,  though  she  became  a  by 
no  means  indispensable  adjunct.  It  is  even 
possible  there  are  base  ones  among  us  who 
may  envy  the  Australian  god  Pundjel,  who 
has  a  wife  whom  he  may  not  see! 

Alas,  Fair  Women  only  laugh  when  they 
behold  Man  going  solitary  to  the  tune  of 

"O!  were  there  an  island, 
Though  ever  so  wild, 
.Where  women  might  smile,  and 
No  man  be  beguiled!" 


IV 

It  is  not  often  that  picture-gallery  cata- 
logues contain  either  humour  or  philosophy. 
There  is  a  naive  humour,  a  genial  philosophy, 
in  the  prefatory  note  to  that  of  a  recent  Ex- 
hibition. "  As,"  so  the  note  runs,  "  there  are 
indeed  certain  pictures  of  Women,  possibly 
more  celebrated  for  their  historical  interest, 
their  influence,  or  their  wit,  than  for  their 
beauty,  some  exception  has  been  taken  to  the 
title  of  the  Exhibition.  The  directors,  how- 
ever, do  not  know  of  any  fixed  standard  by 
which  such  pictures  can  be  judged,  and, 
further,  they  believe  that  in  the  eyes  of  some 

351 


William  Sharp 

one  person,  at  least,  every  woman  has  been 
considered  fair." 

Whereupon  I  hum  to  myself  the  quatrain 
from  the  old  north-country  nursery-ballad  of 
"  Rashin  Coatie  "  — 

"  There  was  a  king  and  a  queen, 
As  mony  ane's  been; 
Few  have  we  seen, 
As  few  may  we  see." 

Alas!  there  are  so  many  queens  of  beauty  on 
the  walls  of  picture  galleries,  and  yet  one's 
heart  stays  secure  from  any  one  of  them! 
But,  suddenly,  I  remember  a  favourite  coup- 
let, by  Campion, 

"Beauty  must  be  scorned  in  none, 
Though  but  truly  served  in  one" — 

and,  having  thought  of  and  quoted  that  sweet 
singer,  must  needs  go  right  through  three 
stanzas  of  his,  memorable  even  in  the  ever- 
new  wealth  of  Elizabethan  love-songs. 

"  Give  beauty  all  her  right ! 

She's  not  to  one  form  tied; 
Each  shape  yields  fair  delight, 

Where  her  perfections  bide : 
Helen,  I  grant,  might  pleasing  be, 
And  Ros'mond  was  as  sweet  as  she. 

352 


Ecce  Puella 

"Some  the  quick  eye  commends, 

Some  swelling  lips  and  red; 
Pale  looks  have  many  friends, 

Through  sacred  sweetness  bred: 
Meadows  have  flowers  that  pleasures  move, 
Though  roses  are  the  flower  of  love. 

"Free  beauty  is  not  bound 

To  one  unmoved  clime; 
She  visits  every  ground, 

And   favours  every  time. 
Let  the  old  lords  with  mine  compare; 
My  Sovereign  is  as  sweet  and  fair." 

There;  all  that  is  to  be  said  about  Fair 
Women,  or  the  Beauty  of  Women,  is  com- 
pressed into  six  short  lines.  This  intangible 
beauty  is  a  citizen  of  the  world,  and  has  her 
home  in  Cathay  as  well  as  Europe.  No  one 
age  claims  her,  and  Helen  of  Troy  takes 
hands  with  Aspasia,  and  they  smile  across  the 
years  to  Lucrezia  Borgia  and  Diane  de 
Poitiers,  who,  looking  forward,  see  the  lovely 
light  reflected  in  la  belle  Hamilton;  and  so 
down  to  our  own  day.  And  then,  once  more, 
Eve  individualised  for  ever  and  ever;  a 
challenge  to  all  the  world  to  bring  forward 
one  sweeter  and  fairer  than  "  my  Sovereign." 

In  other  words,  "  each  woman  is  Eve 
throughout  the  ages."  There  are  many 
Audreys,  alas  —  indeed  sometimes,  within  a 

353 


William  Sharp 

square  mile  even,  there  seems  to  be  an  epi- 
demic of  Audreys!  —  but  a  far-seeing  Provi- 
dence has  created  many  Touchstones.  So  we 
will  believe  that  in  the  eyes  of  at  least  one 
person  each  woman  has  been  considered  fair ; 
though,  to  be  truthful,  "  a  man  may,  if  he 
were  of  a  fearful  heart,  stagger  in  this  at- 
tempt," as  saith  the  blithe-fool  of  Arden 
himself. 

After  all,  these  clowns  and  wenches  in  As 
You  Like  It  are  nearer  the  poetry  of  truth 
than  that  cynical  prose  of  fin-de-siecle  senti- 
ment, of  which  this  is  an  example:  — 

Lady  {looking  at  a  sketch,  then  at  the 
Artist).    "  So:  —  this  is  your  ideal  woman?  " 

Artist.    "  It  was." 

Lady.     "Then  you  have  changed?" 

Artist.     "  Yes.     I  met  her." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  men  who  have  nothing 
of  the  ideal  in  them  are,  in  the  eyes  of  true 
women,  as  a  sunless  summer.  These  women, 
like  Clara  Middleton  of  "the  fine-pointed 
brain,"  have  a  contempt  for  the  male  brain 
"chewing  the  cud  in  the  happy  pastures  of 
unawakedness." 

Women,  plain  or  fair,  do  not  readily  for- 
give. Man  should  remember  this,  when  he 
acts  upon  what  he  considers  his  hereditary 
right  to  joke  upon  the  frailties  of  his  enslaved 

354 


Ecce  Puella 

goddess.  He  is  apt  to  think  that  they  are 
reasonless  in  the  matter  of  their  looks,  for- 
getful that  marriage  is  a  salve  to  all  pre- 
nuptial  display!  They  do  not  mind  back- 
handed compliments:  they  will  smile  at  Vic- 
tor Hugo  when  he  says  that  woman  is  a 
perfected  devil;  they  have  a  caress  in  their 
heart  for  Gavarni  when  he  whispers  that  one 
of  the  sweetest  pleasures  of  a  woman  is  to 
cause  regret;  and  they  take  a  malicious  en- 
tertainment in  the  declaration  of  a  man  of 
the  world  like  Langree,  that  modesty  in  a 
woman  is  a  virtue  most  deserving,  since  we 
men  do  all  we  can  to  cure  her  of  it.  But 
they  will  not  forgive  Montaigne  himself 
when  he  affirms  that  there  is  no  torture  a 
woman  would  not  suffer  to  enhance  her 
beauty. 

"Unfolded    only    out    of    the    illimitable    poem    of 
Woman  can  come  the  poems  of  man." 

Thus  Walt  Whitman.  But  he  does  not  tell 
us  how  variously  the  poets  scan  that  Poem. 
What  would  be  the  result  of  a  plebiscite 
among  civilised  women  themselves:  if  they 
were  given  by  the  Powers  that  Be  the  option 
to  be  beautiful,  to  be  fascinating,  or  to  be 
winsome?  The  woman  who  believes  herself 
predestined  to  be  a  wife  and  a  mother  will 

355 


William  Sharp 

prefer  the  third:  the  born  adventuress  will 
choose  the  second:  the  least  domestic  will 
select  the  first.  On  the  other  hand,  it  might 
be  the  other  way  round.  Who  can  tell? 
Woman  is  still  the  Dark  Continent  of  man. 
If  one  were  to  live  to  the  age  of  Methuselah, 
and  act  on  the  principle  of  nulla  dies  sine 
linea,  with  every  line  devoted  to  the  chronicle 
of  woman's  nature,  the  volume  would  be  be- 
hindhand even  on  the  day  of  publication.  A 
copiously  margined  and  footnoted  edition 
would  be  called  for  immediately.  Even  if  by 
that  time  only  one  woman  were  left,  there 
would  be  prompt  need  of  an  appendix. 
There  would  also,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  always 
be  a  St.  Bernard  to  grumble :  "  Woman  is  the 
organ  of  the  Devil  " —  a  Michelet  to  say  with 
a  smile  that  she  is  the  Sunday  of  man  —  a 
cynic  to  hint  that  love  of  her  might  be  the 
dawn  of  marriage,  but  that  marriage  with  her 
would  be  sunset  of  love  —  a  poet  to  exclaim 
that  she  was  the  last  priestess  of  the  un- 
known. 

"  Feed  me  with  metaphors,"  says  a  poet  in 
a  recent  romance ;  "  and  above  all  with 
metaphors  of  Woman.  I  know  none  that  do 
not  make  me  love  women  more  and  more." 

Did  he  know  his  Balzac?  Somewhere  in 
that  vast  repository  of  thoughts  on  men  and 

356 


Ecce  Puella 

women  I  recollect  this :  "  La  Mort  est  f  emme, 
—  mariee  att  genre  humain,  et  fidele.  Ou  est 
rhomme  qu'elle  a  trompe?" 

Some  day  a  woman  will  compile  a  little 
volume  of  women's  thoughts  about  men. 
These  will  be  interesting.  Men  will  read 
some  of  them  with  the  same  amazed  pain 
wherewith  recently  ennobled  brewers  and  the 
like  peruse  articles  on  the  abolition  of  hered- 
itary aristocracy. 

Here,  for  example,  is  one  — 

"  The  greatest  merit  of  some  men  is  their 
wife." 

It  was  Poincelot,  a  man,  who  said  this :  but 
let  a  woman  speak  — 

"  Physical  beauty  in  man  has  become  as 
rare  as  his  moral  beauty  has  always  been." 

Once  more  — 

"  It  is  not  the  weathercock  that  changes : 
it  is  the  wind." 

Since  the  days  of  Troy  —  or  of  Lilith  — 
men  have  delighted  in  calling  women  weather- 
cocks. 

After  all,  we  have  been  told  many  times 
that  one  of  the  principal  occupations  of  men 
is  to  divine  women:  but  it  was  a  wise 
philosopher  who  added  that  women  prefer 
us  to  say  a  little  evil  of  them  rather  than  say 
nothing  of  them  at  all. 

357 


William  Sharp 


We  are  all  agreed  now,  let  us  say,  that 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  an  universally  ac- 
cepted standard  of  beauty.  There  is  not 
even  an  accepted  standard  of  beauty  among 
those  who  admire  the  same  type.  To  the 
most  favoured  dreamer  Ideala  will  still  come 
in  at  least  three-fold  guise,  as  those  three 
lovely  sisters  of  the  Rushout  family  whom, 
not  Cosway,  but,  like  him,  one  of  the  finest 
of  miniaturists  has  preserved  for  our  delight. 
There  are  a  million  villages  as  fair  as  the  one 
in  which  we  were  born,  but  for  us  there  is 
only  one  village.  When  we  quote  "  Sweet 
Auburn,  loveliest  village  of  the  plain,"  we 
have  one  particular  locality  in  our  mental 
vision,  as  no  doubt  the  poet  of  the  Song  of 
Solomon  had  when  he  sang,  "  Come,  my  be- 
loved, let  us  go  forth  into  the  fields;  let  us 
lodge  in  the  villages."  Doubtless,  too,  he 
had  one  particular  beloved  in  view,  veiled 
behind  his  bardic  rhapsody.  Each  of  us  has 
a  particular  Eve  behind  the  phantom  of  an 
ideal  type. 

Of  course  there  are  both  "  villages "  and 
"  Eves  "  that  exist  only  in  the  mind.  There 
are  dreamers  who  prefer  either  when  most 
unsubstantial.     "  Ma    contree    de    diction," 

358 


Ecce  Puella 

says  the  Flemish  novelist  Eekhoud,  "  n'existe 
pour  aucun  tonriste,  et  jamais  guide  ou 
medecin  ne  la  recommendera.,,  Some,  too, 
having  found  an  Eve,  will  crave  for  her  isola- 
tion from  the  rough  usage  of  the  common 
day,  lest  she  fall  from  her  high  estate.  They 
are  not  altogether  foolish  who  can  do  so,  and 
can  say  with  a  young  living  poet :  — 

"  I  fear  lest  time  or  toil  should  mar  — 
I  fear  lest  passion  should  debase 
The  delicacy  of  thy  grace. 
Depart;  and  I  will  throne  thee  far, 
Will  hide  thee  in  a  halcyon  place 
That  hath  an  angel  populace; 
And  ever  in  dreams  will  find  thy  face, 
Where  all  things  pure  and  perfect  are, 
Smiling  upon  me  like  a  star." 

This  is  a  temper  beyond  most  of  us,  who 
are  all  hedonists  by  instinct,  and  in  the  bodily 
not  the  spirtual  sense.  Flaubert  the  man  was 
not  representative  of  us,  his  weaker  fellows. 
"  Je  n'ai  jamais  pu  emboiter  Venus  avec- 
Apollon,"  as  he  wrote  to  George  Sand,  when 
she  advised  him  to  try  domestic  happiness  or 
at  least  a  little  flirtation. 

Besides,  there  are  men  to  whom  the  ele- 
ment of  strangeness,  of  something  bizarre 
perhaps,  even  of  something  barbaric,  is  of 
primary  appeal.     The  very  quintessence,  the 

359 


William  Sharp 

crown,  the  aloebloom  of  this  kind  of  art,  is 
it  not  Leonardo's  Monna  Lisa  del'  Gioconda? 
Perhaps,  even  more  convincingly,  in  that 
drawing  of  his  in  the  Academia  della  Belle 
Arti,  in  Venice,  of  a  beautiful  girl,  with  side- 
long rippling  hair,  delicately  crowned  with 
vine  leaves,  with  that  enigmatical  smile  on 
her  face  and  still  more  enigmatical  smile  in 
her  eyes  —  a  type  finer  even  than  this 
Milanese  beauty?  It  is  a  type  that  does  not 
appeal  to  many  men,  but,  where  its  appeal 
is  felt  at  all,  it  is  irresistible.  There  is  all 
the  seduction  of  nameless  peril  in  these  mys- 
terious faces  which  apparently  tell  nothing 
and  yet  are  so  full  of  subtle  meaning  and  re- 
pressed intensity.  How  else,  again,  are  we 
to  account  for  the  fascination  of  such  an  one 
as  Lady  Ellenborough,  for  instance,  "  the 
imperious  Jane,"  immortalised  by  Sir  Thomas 
Lawrence  ? 

Surely  it  must  be  admitted  that  even  his 
art  does  not  bestow  beauty  upon  "  that 
witch."  Doubtless  she  had  a  smile  that 
could  unlock  prison  doors,  eyes  that  could 
melt  a  Marat  or  Danton,  a  mien  and  manner, 
an  expression  and  charm,  that  made  her  irre- 
sistible to  most  men.  But,  on  canvas,  one 
can  see  no  more  than  that  she  looks  like  a 
woman    who    had    immense    vitality.     The 

360 


Ecce  Puella 

lady's   story   is   certainly   a   remarkable   one. 
Miss  Jane  Elizabeth  Digby  must  have  been  a 
vivacious  damsel,  even  while  still  a  school- 
girl, and,  in  the  manner  of  her  time,  learning 
to  spell  execrably.     She  was  one  of  the  for- 
tunate women  born  with  the  invisible  sceptre. 
If  she  had  been  an  actress,  she  would  have 
been  the  empress  of  the  stage;  if  she  had 
been  a  demimondaine,  she  would  have  been 
the  Aspasia  of  her  day;  if  she  had  been  a 
queen,  she  would  have  been  a  Catherine  of 
Russia.     Again,  she  was  one  of  those  impet- 
uous people  who  have  no  time  to  be  virtuous. 
We  know  next  to  nothing  of  her  girlhood, 
yet  we  may  be  sure  that  she  set  her  nurse- 
maid a  bad  example  in  flirtation,  and  shocked 
her  governess,  if  she  had  one,  by  many  abor- 
tive intrigues.     No  doubt  her  friends  thought 
that  she  would  settle  down  and  be  good  when 
she  became  the  wife  of  the  Earl  of  Ellen- 
borough.     They   argued   that   what   a   high- 
spirited    Miss    Digby    would    do,    a    proud- 
spirited Countess  of  Ellenborough  would  dis- 
dain.    But  Miss  Jane  Elizabeth  had,  she  con- 
sidered, come  into  the  world  to  enjoy  herself 
in  her  own  way.     Not  long  after  her  mar- 
riage she  permitted  the  too  marked  attention 
of  Prince  Schwartzenberg,  and  this  brought 
about   a   duel   between   that   gentleman    and 

361 


William  Sharp 

Lord  Ellenborough.  Neither  duellist  was 
killed:  and  the  only  result  was  that  not  long 
afterwards  the  lady  made  up  her  mind  to  go 
off  with  Prince  Schwartzenberg.  After  a 
time  Lord  Ellenborough  died,  and  then  his 
widow  married  the  Prime  Minister  of 
Bavaria.  That  a  genuine  passion  for  this 
strange  woman  animated  the  Bavarian  noble 
is  clear,  not  only  from  his  having  offered 
marriage  to  a  lady  of  such  doubtful  reputa- 
tion, but  from  the  tragic  circumstance  that, 
when  she  tired  of  him  in  turn,  and  set  forth 
once  more  on  her  dauntless  quest  of  man,  he 
committed  suicide.  She  had  several  episodes 
between  this  date  and  that  when  she  found 
herself  in  Syria,  and  espoused  to  an  Arab 
Sheik  of  Damascus.  It  would  be  incredible 
that  she  died  in  his  arms  in  the  desert,  were 
it  not  for  the  additional  fact  that  she  was 
at  that  moment  contemplating  an  elopement 
with  her  handsome  dragoman.  Miss  Digby 
was,  certainly,  not  one  of  those  "  beauties  " 
towards  whom  —  as  Gautier  advises  —  one 
should  go  straight  as  a  bullet.  Instead  of 
our  seizing  "  her  by  the  tip  of  the  wing, 
politely  but  firmly  like  a  gendarme,"  she 
would  be  much  more  likely  to  seize  us.  She 
was  unreasonable,  we  will  admit,  but  then, 
with  Mme.  de  Girardin,  she  might  exclaim 

362 


Ecce  Puella 

"  Be  reasonable !  which  means :  No  longer 
hope  to  be  happy."  Obviously  she  was  of 
those  essentially  feline  women  of  whom  Ed- 
gar de  Meilhan  speaks  when  he  says  that 
"  tigers,  whatever  you  may  say,  are  bad  com- 
panions." "  With  regard  to  tigers,"  he  adds, 
"  we  tolerate  only  cats,  and  then  they  must 
have  velvet  paws."  Neither  Lord  Ellen- 
borough,  nor  the  Bavarian  Prime  Minister, 
nor  the  Arab  Sheik,  nor  any  other  of  her 
special  friends,  would  deny  that  a  little  more 
velvet  on  the  paws  of  the  sprightly  Jane 
Elizabeth  would  have  been  an  advantage. 

There  are  always  women  of  this  kind,  who 
exercise  an  imperious  and  inexplicable  sway 
over  the  male  imagination,  or,  to  be  more 
exact,  over  the  imagination  of  certain  males. 
It  is  no  use  to  reason  with  the  bondager. 
With  the  King  in  Love's  Labour's  Lost  he 
can  but  reply 

"Yet  still  is  the  moon,  and  I  the  man. 
The  music  plays    .    .    ." 

We  are  fortunate,  possibly,  who  never  hear 
this  music,  a  bewildering  strain  from  the 
heart  of  the  Venusberg.  Rather  that  "  silver 
chiming,"  which  is  "the  music  of  the  bells 
of  wedded  love."  Poets  are  terrible  romanti- 
cists in  the  matter  of  the  affections.    They  are 

363 


William  Sharp 

the  most  faithful  of  lovers  to  some  impossible 
She :  but  they  are  apt  to  have  wandering  eyes 
in  the  ordinary  way  of  life.  Too  many  be- 
have, even  on  the  threshold  of  the  Ideal,  in 
the  reprehensible  manner  of  Samuel  Pepys 
when  that  famous  chronicler  and  incurable 
old  pagan  found  himself  in  church  one  fine 
day.  "  Being  wearied,"  he  writes,  "  turned 
into  St.  Dunstan's  Church,  where  I  heard  an 
able  sermon  of  the  minister  of  the  place ;  and 
stood  by  a  pretty  modest  maid,  whom  I  did 
labour  to  take  by  the  hand;  but  she  would 
not,  but  got  further  and  further  from  me; 
and,  at  last,  I  could  perceive  her  to  take  pins 
out  of  her  pocket  to  prick  me  if  I  should 
touch  her  again  —  which,  seeing,  I  did  for- 
bear, and  was  glad  I  did  spy  her  design. 
And  then  I  fell  to  gaze  upon  another  pretty 
maid  in  a  pew  close  to  me,  and  she  on  me; 
and  I  did  go  about  to  take  her  by  the  hand, 
which  she  suffered  a  little  and  then  withdrew. 
So  the  sermon  ended."  It  is  to  be  feared 
that  Pepys  had  not  realised  that  counsel  of 
perfection,  which  may  be  given  in  the  guise 
of  a  phrase  remembered  from  Evan  Harring- 
ton, —  "  Both  Ale  and  Eve  seem  to  speak  im- 
periously to  the  love  of  man.  See  that  they 
be  good,  see  that  they  come  in  season." 


364 


Ecce  Puella 


VI 


"  But  how  to  know  beauty  in  woman  when 
one  sees  it,  that  is  the  question/'  said  to  me 
a  disappointed  bachelor  friend  the  other  day. 
"  If  there  is  no  absolute  beauty,  and  if  the 
type  is  so  much  distributed  in  various  guises, 
how  is  a  man  who  cares  only  for  dark  women 
to  see  the  insignia  of  beauty  in  those  who 
have  red  hair  or  yellow,  and  blue  eyes,  and 
in  the  matter  of  complexion  are  like  curds 
and  cream  stained  with  roses?" 

Alas  for  these  uncertain  ones,  there  is 
nothing  for  it  but  a  steady  course  of  gratify- 
ing and  educating  the  Appreciative  Faculties ! 
To  my  querist  I  replied  in  the  words  of  Gau- 
tier  as  Edgar  de  Meilhan :  "  Go  straight  as  a 
bullet  towards  your  beauty;  seize  her  by  the 
tip  of  her  wing,  politely  but  firmly,  like  a 
gendarme." 

But  is  there  for  you,  for  me,  a  fundamental 
charm?  That  charm,  surely,  must  be  dis- 
tinction. With  the  Egoist,  "  my  thoughts 
come  to  this  conclusion,  that,  especially  in 
women,  distinction  is  the  thing  to  be  aimed 
at."  This,  alone,  is  what  survives,  perhaps 
all  that  ever  lived,  in  the  portraits  of  the 
"  beauties  "  of  a  bygone  day.  Then,  too,  it 
must  be  kept  in  mind  that  the  painter,  even 

365 


William  Sharp 

more  than  the  poet,  is  a  born  sycophant.  He 
loves  the  sweet  insincerities  of  the  plausibly 
impossible.  Most  of  us  are  apt  to  be  de- 
ceived by  the  innuendoes  of  anecdote,  the 
flatteries  of  rumour,  the  glamour  of  the  Past, 
the  mirage  of  history.  Take,  for  example, 
Botticelli's  well-known  "  La  Bella  Simonetta," 
the  lady  whom  Giuliano  de  Medici  made  his 
mistress  because  of  her  winsome  beauty. 
"  La  Bella  Simonetta : "  there  is  magic  in  the 
name:  it  is  a  sweet  sound  echoing  down  the 
corridors  of  memory.  Alessandro  Filipepi 
painted  her  before  the  greater  name  of  San- 
dro  Botticelli  became  a  mockery  among  the 
ungodly  who  railed  at  Savonarola  and  his 
teachings.  Angelo  Politian  and  Pulci 
wedded  her  loveliness  to  lovely  words, 
and  .  .  .  whose  pulse,  now,  would 
quicken  because  of  la  bella  Simonetta?  Even 
through  the  ingenuity  of  Sandro's  art,  a 
quite  ordinary  damsel  confronts  us. 

Again,  take  the  acknowledged  Fair  Women 
of  our  own  country  and  of  a  time  nearer  our 
own:  two  types  so  popular  as  Lely's  Countess 
of  Grammont  and  Van  Dyck's  Countess  of 
Sutherland. 

While  it  is  easy  to  understand  how  Eliza- 
beth Hamilton  became  "  la  belle  Hamilton  " 
at  the  Court  of  Charles  II.,  and  had  more 

3^ 


Ecce  Puella 

offers  of  marriage  than  the  number  of  years 
she  had  lived,  till,  in  the  third  year  of  the 
Restoration,  she  gave  her  hand  to  the  cele- 
brated wit  and  courtier,  the  Comte  Philiberte 
de  Grammont,  most  of  us  doubtless  would  find 
it  difficult  to  discover  that  "  fundamental 
charm  "  we  hoped  to  see.  I  could  believe  all 
that  her  brother  Anthony  could  tell  of  her 
beauty  and  winsomeness,  and  have  no  doubt 
that  Count  Philibert  was  a  very  lucky  man. 
But,  for  myself,  I  realise  that  even  had  I  been 
a  member  of  that  wicked,  laughing,  delightful, 
reprehensible  Cavalier  Court,  and  a  favourite 
of  fortune  in  the  matter  of  advantages,  I 
doubt  if  I  would  have  been  one  of  the  five- 
and-twenty  suitors  of  "  la  belle  Hamilton." 
Certainly,  as  things  are,  one  might  be  Japhet 
in  search  of  a  wife  and  still  not  be  allured, 
even  in  random  fancy,  by  this  particular  Fair 
Woman.*  Alas,  there  is  yet  another  charm 
which  allures  men  when  Beauty  is  only  an  im- 
possible star;  in  the  words  of  the  anonymous 
poet  of  "  Tibbie  Fowler  o'  the  Glen," 

"Gin  a  lass  be  e'er  sae  black 
An'  she  hae  the  pennysiller, 
Set  her  up  on  Tinto  tap, 
The  win'll  blaw  a  man  'till  her." 

*  Marryat's  Japhet  sought  a  father,  but  this  is  not 
a  misapplication  to  boggle  at! 

367 


William  Sharp 

It  was  not  the  fair  Elizabeth's  "  pennysiller," 
however,  that  was  the  attraction,  though  she 
did  have  what  the  Scots  slyly  call  "advan- 
tages." 

Nevertheless,  it  is  clear  she  must  have  in  her 
beauty  something  that  appeals  to  many  minds 
and  in  different  epochs.  The  fastidious  nobles 
and  wits  of  the  Restoration  admired  her ;  Sir 
Peter  Lely  expended  his  highest  powers  in 
painting  her ;  his  portrait  of  her  has  long  been 
the  gem  of  the  famous  series  known  as  the 
"  Windsor  Beauties,"  and  at  Hampton  Court 
she  is  ever  one  of  the  most  popular  of  the 
ladies  of  the  Stuart  regime. 

Probably  the  Countess  of  Sutherland,  of 
whom  Van  Dyck,  it  is  thought,  so  much  en- 
joyed the  painting,  must  have  been  more 
winsome  in  looks,  as  she  was  certainly  superior 
in  graces  of  mind  and  spirit.  This  is  the 
famous  Lady  Dorothy  Sidney,  daughter  of  the 
second  Earl  of  Leicester  and  wife  of  that 
Lord  Sunderland,  the  first  of  his  title,  who  fell 
fighting  under  the  Royalist  flag  at  the  Battle 
of  Newbury;  not  to  be  remembered  for  this 
now,  however,  but  as  the  "  Sacharissa "  of 
Edmund  Waller's  love-poems.  True,  Waller, 
who  was  for  generations  one  of  the  most  pop- 
ular, and  for  a  few  decades  the  most  popular 
of  all  English  poets,  is  now  almost  as  little 

368 


Ecce  Puella 

read  as  the  least  notable  of  his  contemporaries. 
He  aspired  to  be  England's  Petrarch,  and  like 
Lovelace  with  one  flawless  lyric,  or  like 
Blanco  White,  or  the  French  poet,  Felix 
Arvers,  with  a  single  sonnet,  is  now  among 
the  immortals  by  virtue  only  of  one  little  song. 
Possibly  Laura  had  as  good  reason  for  dis- 
counting the  passion  of  her  Petrarco  as  Dor- 
othy Sidney  had  for  qualification  of  the  pro- 
longed homage  of  Waller.  Both  "  My  death- 
less Laura "  and  "  My  divine  Sacharissa " 
married  another  person  than  the  lover  who 
gave  immortality  in  verse;  married,  and  had 
children,  and  occasionally  perhaps  glanced  at 
the  Sonnets  to  Laura,  or  the  Poems  addressed 
to  Sacharissa.  Not  only,  indeed,  did  Lady 
Dorothy  choose  Lord  Sunderland  in  prefer- 
ence to  Waller,  but  as  a  widow  she  even  pre- 
ferred the  practical  poetry  of  a  Mr.  Robert 
Smythe's  wooing  to  that  which  in  her  youth 
she  had  had  so  much  experience  of  in  verse. 
Fair  and  comely  she  seems  in  Van  Dyck's 
portrait  of  her,  though  not  the  Sacharissa  of 
whom  one  had  dreamed.  Was  it  this  at- 
tractive English  lady  who  was  the  inspirer  of 
"  Go,  lovely  Rose  ?  "  The  thought  suggests 
the  strange  revelation  it  would  be,  if  we  were 
to  be  entertained  with  a  series  of  authentic 
likenesses  of  all  the  beautiful  women  we  have 

369 


William  Sharp 

loved  or  dreamed  of  across  the  ages.  "  A 
Dream  of  Fair  Women  " ;  what  would  Helen 
say  to  it,  or  Cleopatra,  or  Guenevere,  or,  for 
that  matter,  Eve  herself?  What  a  desert  of 
disillusion  would  exist  between  the  catalogue- 
entry,  "  Helen,  daughter  of  Leda  queen  to 
King  Tyndarus,  who  became  the  wife  of 
Menelaus,  and  subsequently  went  abroad  with 
Paris:  commonly  known  as  Helen  of  Troy," 
and  the  quoted  motto-lines  from  Marlowe: — 

"Is  this  the  face  that  launched  a  thousand  ships 
And  burned  the  topless  towers  of  Ilium  ?  " 

Again,  fancy  the  astonishment  and  chagrin  of 
Mr.  Swinburne,  if  he  passed  one  by  one  the 
actual  counterparts  of  the  ladies  of  the 
"  Masque  of  Queen  Bersabe,"  from  Herodias 
to  that  Alaciel  whose  eyes  "  were  as  a  grey- 
green  sea,"  and  found  that  he  could  not  recog- 
nise one  of  those  vignettes  in  red  or  white 
flame  which  he  wrought  so  wondrously  in  the 
days  of  his  youth !  Semiramis,  in  truth,  may 
have  been  but  a  handsome  woman  with  a 
temper,  the  Queen  of  Sheba  nothing  more 
than  distinctly  pretty,  and  Sappho  passionate 
but  plain. 

But  there  is  a  difference  between  the  prais- 
ers  of  Royal  beauty  and  those  who  hymn  ladies 
whom  they  can  also  approach  when  the  lyre  is 

370 


Ecce  Puella 

laid  aside.  We  believe  in  Laura  and  Sacha- 
rissa  and  Castara,  and  many  other  fair  dames 
beloved  of  the  sons  of  Apollo.  If  for  noth- 
ing else  than  because  she  inspired  the  loveliest 
of  all  Waller's  songs,  we  would  look  with 
homage  at  this  Fair  Woman  whom  the  genius 
of  Van  Dyck  has  given  us  a  glimpse  of: — 

"  Go,  lovely  Rose, 
Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and  me, 
That  now  she  knows 
When  I  resemble  her  to  thee 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 

"Tell  her  that's  young, 
And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 
That  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts  where  no  men  abide, 
Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 

"  Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired; 
Bid  her  come  forth, 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

"Then  die,  that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 
May  read  in  thee, 

How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 
Who  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair." 

After  all,  perhaps  the  secret  of  our  delight  in 
371 


William  Sharp 

these  Ladies  of  "  the  glowing  picture  and  the 
living  word  "  is  this :  that,  even  of  the  fairest, 
the  true  lover  can  say,  with  the  poet  of  "  The 
Moonstar  "  — 

"Lady,  I  thank  thee  for  thy  loveliness, 
Because  my  lady  is  more  lovely  still." 

VII 

To  return  to  the  Fair  Women  of  Painting. 
Here,  alas,  there  remain  always  one  or  two 
unforgivable  disillusions.  To  begin  with, 
there  is  the  inevitable  Eve;  generally  either  a 
matronly  person  discomfortably  garbless,  or  a 
self-conscious  studio  model.  There  is  Helen 
of  Troy,  gloriously  immortal  in  the  hexameters 
of  Homer  and  the  heroics  of  Marlowe,  but 
made  ridiculous  by  innumerable  painters. 
And,  to  come  home,  there  is  our  own  Helen: 
Mary  of  Scotland.  Is  there  indeed  a  portrait 
of  the  Queen  of  Scots  in  existence  which  any 
Mariolater  could  have  pleasure  in  looking  at? 
There  are  certain  women  we  never  wish  to  see 
except  in  mental  vision.  Some  readers  may 
recollect  the  Sapphic  fragment  preserved  by 
Hephaestion,  which  tells  us  simply  that 
"  Mnasidica  is  more  shapely  than  the  tender 
Gyrinno."  Fortunate  Mnasidica,  who  has 
haunted  the  minds  of  men  ever  since,  through 

372 


Ecce  Puella 

never  once  having  been  enslaved  by  sculptor 
or  painter  of  any  period !  Beautiful  Shapeli- 
ness, that  none  can  gainsay!  Painters  who 
give  us  Helens  and  Cleopatras  and  Queen 
Maries  seem  to  be  quite  unaware  of  the  heavy 
handicap  they  put  upon  their  productions. 
And  so  it  goes  without  saying,  that  all  por- 
traits of  Mary  of  Scotland  are  disappointing, 
from  that  of  the  earliest  anonymous  limner  to 
that  of  Mr.  Lavery.  There  is  not  one  of  us 
blase  enough  to  withstand  the  cruel  disillusion 
of  what,  by  way  of  adding  insult  to  injury,  is 
called  "  authentic  likeness."  Poor  Mary !  She 
has  paid  bitterly  in  innumerable  portraits  for 
the  wonderful  rumour  of  her  beauty  in  her 
own  day.  No  man  who  respects  himself 
should  commit  lese  majeste  by  ungracious 
comment  before  any  canvas  of  this  pictorially 
much  misrepresented  Queen.  It  does  indeed 
make  one  glad  that  a  few  others  world-famous 
for  their  beauty  were  spared  the  ignominy  of 
pictorial  immortality. 

If  all  Fair  Women  of  Picture-world  were 
brought  together,  it  would  be  made  quite  clear 
that  the  one  thing  which  in  a  thousand  in- 
stances escapes  the  painter  is  expression.  Ex- 
pression is  the  morning  glory  of  beauty.  A 
few  men  in  all  ages  have  understood  this, 
Leonardo  and  the  great  Italians  pre-eminently. 

373 


William  Sharp 

It  is  to  the  credit  of  many  of  the  most  eccen- 
tric "  impressionists  "  that  they  have  wearied 
of  conventional  similitude,  and  striven  to  give 
something  of  the  real  self  of  the  person  whose 
likeness  is  being  transferred  to  canvas. 
These,  with  Bastien  Lepage,  have  realised  that 
"  we  must  change  our  ways  if  any  of  our  work 
is  to  live."  "  We  must  try,"  adds  that  notable 
artist  of  whom  Mrs.  Julia  Cartwright  has 
given  us  so  excellent  a  biography,  "  we 
must  try  to  see  and  reproduce  that  inmost  radi- 
ance which  lies  at  the  heart  of  things,  and  is 
the  only  true  beauty,  because  it  is  the  life." 

That  inmost  radiance!  To  discern  it,  to 
apprehend  it,  to  reveal  it  to  others,  that  is  in- 
deed the  quintessential  thing  in  all  art. 

But  the  spectator  must  not  only  make  al- 
lowances for  the  painter  of  a  portrait ;  he  must 
himself  exercise  a  certain  effort.  In  a  word, 
he  must  bring  the  glow  of  imagination  into 
play,  he  must  let  his  mental  atmosphere  be 
nimble  and  keenly  receptive.  He  must  re- 
member that  while  portraiture  may  have  veri- 
similitude o-f  a  kind,  it  can  very  rarely  simu- 
late that  loveliest  thing  in  a  woman's  beauty  — 
expression.  He  must  discern  in  the  canvas  a 
light  that  is  not  there.  He  must  see  the 
colour  come  and  go  upon  the  face,  must  see 
+.he  eyes  darken  or  gleam,  the  lips  move,  the 

374 


Ecce  Pu  ell  a 

smile  just  about  to  come  forth :  and,  if  possi- 
ble, the  inner  radiance  that,  in  many  vivid  and 
fine  natures,  seems  to  dwell  upon  the  fore- 
head, though  too  fugitive  ever  to  be  caught, 
save  as  it  were  for  a  moment  unawares. 


375 


Fragments  From  the  Lost 
Journals  of  Piero 
Di  Cosimo 


FRAGMENTS  FROM  THE  LOST  JOUR- 
NALS OF  PIERO  DI  COSIMO  * 


Before  I  went  to  Rome  with  my  master 
Cosimo  many  strange  things  happened.  No 
perilous  or  untoward  incidents  befell  me,  it 
is  true,  but  I  was  ever  so  curious  in  the  by- 
ways of  life  that  each  day  brought  me  some- 
thing whereat  to  marvel  greatly.  It  was  ever 
so  with  me.  Life  itself  is  the  supreme  mys- 
tery :  whoso  fathoms  that  will  solve  the  whole 
secret  that  has  puzzled  the  wisest  men  of  all 
time.  Yet  the  more  I  think  (and  what  a 
strain  this  endless  thinking  is  —  thinking, 
thinking,  thinking!)  the  more  I  realise  that 
there  can  be  no  discovery  for  any  man  save 
the  revelation  that  the  world  exists  for  him 
only.  What  I  mean  is  clear,  though  perad- 
venture  to  some  it  might  seem  either  a  sport 
in  words,  an  untimely  folly,  or  to  others  a 
dark  saying,  such  as  the  occult  wisdom  of 
those  soothsayers  and  astrologers  who,  I  am 
well  assured,  play  upon  the  ignorance  of  the 

*  Doubtless  the  Journal  of  Piero  di  Cosimo,  or 
certain  portions  of  it,  must  have  been  known  to 
Vasari.  His  description,  certainly,  of  the  Car  of 
Death,  closely  tallies  with  Piero's  own. 

379 


William  Sharp 

uneducated.  It  is  this:  that  whatsoever  this 
world  has,  behind  its  veil,  as  it  were;  such 
hidden  beauty  or  strangeness  or  terror  is  only 
to  be  seen  of  those  eyes  which  bring  their  own 
power  of  seeing.  Children  and  many  ignorant 
country-people  believe,  that  the  fogs  and  rains 
which  the  autumnal  equinox  bringeth  do  in- 
deed obliterate  the  stars  from  the  obscured 
heavens:  not  knowing  that  their  shining  is  a 
thing  apart,  and  as  far  removed  from  the 
vanities  of  this  earth  as  the  virtues  of  the  most 
Blessed  Virgin  Mother  are  from  the  petty 
goodnesses  and  shortcomings  of  womankind 
in  this  world  —  and  most  certainly  from  those 
of  the  ladies  of  Florence,  who  seem  to  me  to 
have  much  resemblance  to  those  flighty  insects 
which  hover  in  still  noons  and  at  sundown  by 
Arno-side,  having  all  the  characteristics  of 
these,  but  lacking  in  the  most  welcome,  that 
they  perish  speedily,  even  if  they  survive  their 
long  day  from  starsetting  to  moonrise.  But 
wiser  persons,  to  whom  the  processes  of  na- 
ture are,  in  their  superficial  aspects,  not  in  any 
wise  strange,  know  well  the  foolishness  of 
such  surmises  about  the  disappearance  of 
heavenly  bodies  because  of  the  rising  of 
earthly  mists  and  vapours.  And  so  is  it  with 
the  more  occult  world  of  thought.  One  must 
have  the  eye  of  faith  as  well  as  the  eye  of  the 

380 


From  the  Lost  Journals  of  Piero  di  Cosimo 

body.  One  must  know  that  there  is  light  be- 
yond darkness,  life  beyond  death,  spirit 
beyond  clay,  just  as  the  educated  know  that 
the  same  stars  which  we  saw  yesternight  still 
whirl  their  silver  spheres  through  the  upper 
spaces,  whether  mists  and  darkness  intervene 
or  the  equally  obscuring  splendour  of  the  sun. 
But  over  and  above  this  there  is  a  further 
vision  which  a  few  have.  This  sight  brings 
to  the  mind  and  thence  to  the  soul  what  is  be- 
yond the  extremest  visual  ken.  Men  so  gifted 
are  the  world's  philosophers.  They  see  not 
merely  the  fixity  of  the  stars  and  the  mutabil- 
ity of  the  mists  and  darkness,  but  the  causes 
of  these  obscurities :  and  they  apprehend  also 
the  laws  whereby  the  stars  exist  and  scatter 
their  remote  influences  upon  the  tides  of  life, 
whether  these  be  of  the  waters  of  ocean,  or  of 
the  sap  in  trees  and  plants,  or  of  the  hot  or 
gelid  blood  in  the  living  things  of  the  world, 
from  the  lizard  and  the  callous  newt  to  man 
himself.  And  yet  again  there  are  some  who 
have  a  still  deeper  sight.  These  are  they  who 
are  the  passionate  students  of  life.  But  of 
what  avail  is  it  that  one  telleth  unto  another 
his  interpretation,  if  the  other  understand  not 
also  something  of  the  occult  meanings,  the 
lost  language,  of  which  it  is  the  halting  trans- 
lation?   There   is   no   salve   to   our   undying 

381 


William  Sharp 

curiosity  save  that  which  is  found  of  our- 
selves. Therefore  is  it  why  I,  for  one,  have 
long  sought  diligently  of  her,  Madonna 
Natura  —  Natura  Benigna  or  Natura  Ma- 
ligna?—  my  one  mistress;  and  how  I  shall 
ever  so  continue,  even  as  I  have  done  from 
my  youth  onward. 

My  youth !  Ah !  I  was  young  then  when  I 
started  with  good  Master  Cosimo  for  the 
court  of  Pope  Sixtus  in  that  near  and  yet  far- 
off  Rome.  I  have  already,  earlier  in  these 
journals,  written  of  my  lonely  but  not  unhappy 
boyhood,  but  now  I  cannot  help  recalling  those 
bygone  days.  Here  is  a  letter  which  Cosimo 
Rosselli,  my  good  master,  my  very  father, 
wrote  to  me,  now  years  agone.  It  is  already 
stained  with  some  chemic  dissolution:  as  the 
world  is  with  the  stain  of  mortality:  as  /  am, 
now  that  I  am  sere  as  one  of  those  October 
chestnut-leaves  I  brought  home  with  me  the 
other  day  from  that  deep  glade  of  Vallom- 
brosa  I  love  so  well. 

"  My  ever-beloved  Piero,"  so  runs  the  dear 
familiar  hand,  "the  tears  are  in  my  eyes  to- 
day, and  for  two  causes.  This  afternoon, 
after  I  had  finished  painting  —  and,  alas!  my 
craft  is  not  what  it  was  —  I  went  forth  to  sun 
myself  in  the  gardens  of  the  Medici,  having  at 
all  times  the  entry  thereto.    There,  just  as  I 

382 


'From  the  Lost  Journals  of  Piero  di  Cosimo 

was  about  to  leave,  owing  to  a  twilight  wind, 
somewhat  premature  and  cold,  coming  out  of 
the  greenness  of  the  cypress  boughs,  I  heard  a 
sound  as  of  some  one  sobbing.  It  had  such 
bitter  distress  in  it  that  my  heart  ached.  After 
a  brief  time  of  uncertainty  I  beheld,  quite 
close,  and  leaning  against  a  very  ancient  yew, 
an  old  man,  so  wearily  a  wreck  of  life  that 
he  seemed  rather  a  human-like  excrescence  of 
the  tree  than  a  fellow  creature.  But  the 
crackling  of  a  cone  or  twig  beneath  my  feet 
aroused  him,  and  he  passed  at  once  from  the 
semblance  of  dismal  death  to  the  reality  of  a 
yet  more  dismal  life.  He  was  about  to  make 
haste  away,  as  speedily  as  his  age  and  infirmi- 
ties would  permit,  and  not  without  an  angry 
and  half-defiant  irritation  at  my  unwitting  in- 
trusion, such  as,  I  bethought  me,  betokened 
some  rankling  memory  of  better  days,  when  he 
stumbled  over  one  of  the  two  sticks  whereby 
he  aided  his  feeble  gait.  I  ran  forward  to 
assist  him,  and  who  think  you,  Piero,  I  recog- 
nised? None  other  than  that  true  and  great 
painter  whom  you  have  so  often  admired, 
Sandro  Botticelli !  Ah,  how  it  made  my  tears 
well  to  my  eyes.  But  though  he  knew  me,  he 
would  have  none  of  me.  I  besought  him  by 
old  friendship,  by  the  memory  of  our  com- 
radeship at  Rome,  when  he  and  I  and  Domen- 

383 


William  Sharp 

ico  Ghirlandajo,  and  Luca  of  Cortona,  and 
Piero  Perugino,  all  wrought  together  for  the 
Papal  award.  He  laughed  once,  but  bitterly ; 
and  taunted  me,  by  asking  if  I  had  yet  turned 
my  pictures  into  a  jeweller's  stock;  alluding 
therein  to  the  method  whereby  I  gained  the 
Pope's  prime  favour,  by  the  excessive  gilding 
of  my  work,  which  made  his  Holiness  believe 
it  to  be  superior  to  the  productions  of  better 
men —  (a  matter,  Piero,  I  once  took  pride  in, 
but  am  now  ashamed  of) :  but,  on  my  silence, 
he  turned  away  as  though  penitent  before  an 
old  friend.  '  Mio  caro  amico,  mio  maestro 
carissimo,'  I  began,  when  he  brusquely  inter- 
rupted me,  and  cried  '  Ecco!  Cosimo  Rosselli, 
I  am  Alessandro  Filipepi,  the  son  of  Mariano 
Filipepi,  of  Florence,  and  have  nought  to  do 
with  the  vain  dabbler  in  painted  follies  whom 
men  call  Botticelli.  You  knew  me  of  old,  and 
may  call  me  Sandro  if  you  will,  but  not  that 
other  name.  Shall  my  tears  and  my  bitter  re- 
pentance never  wash  out  those  days  of  sinful 
vanity !  ■  To  the  which  heart-wrung  cry  I  re- 
plied :  '  I  knew  you  had  thrown  away  brush 
and  pencil,  Sandro  mio,  and  that  you  had  be- 
come a  Piagnone,*  but  I  never  believed,  I  can- 
not now  believe,  that  you,  you,  the  master  Bot- 

*That   is,   of  the   bigoted   sect  of   Fra  Girolamo 
Savonarola. 

384 


From  the  Lost  Journals  of  Piero  di  Cosimo 

ticelli  —  nay,  you  must  let  me  say  it  —  can 
forget  your  art.  How  well  I  remember  your 
saying  to  Ghirlandajo,  that  work  was  good  but 
beauty  was  better,  as  the  soul  is  lovelier  than 
even  the  most  fair  body.  You  cannot  have 
forgotten  that,  nor  how  you  once  told  Luca 
Signorelli  that  pure  colour  was  like  God,  for 
the  very  being  of  God  is  pure  music,  and  pure 
colour  is  but  the  visible  and  beautiful  tranced 
body  of  music/  Whereupon  he  sighed,  looked 
at  me  long  and  earnestly ;  then,  muttering  only, 
'  I  am  well,  I  am  well,  I  want  for  nought/ 
made  me  sign  of  farewell,  and  went  on  his 
way.  But  for  hours  afterward,  ay  and  oft 
since,  methought  I  heard  that  bitter,  miser- 
able sob  where  the  yew  and  cypress  shadows 
were. 

"  And  the  other  cause  of  my  weeping  to-day, 
though  rather  a  soft  summer  rain,  such  as  falls 
from  my  white  lilac  (where  the  young  thrush 
revolves  his  song  oftentimes  leisurely,  but 
again  with  such  a  marvellous  swift  joy  and 
sweetness  as  to  make  me  wonder  at  God's 
grace  to  these  creatures  of  a  springtide), 
rather  such  a  rain  I  say  than  the  sterner  tears 
which  I  shed  earlier  over  my  unhappy  Botti- 
celli. 

"  For  I  came  by  chance,  dear  son,  upon  an 
early  and  a  strange  letter  of  thine,  when  thou 

385 


William  Sharp 

wert  not  yet  in  thy  fifteenth  year.  How 
keenly  it  recalled  those  bygone  days!  I 
seemed  once  again  to  see  thee,  ever  studious, 
and  apart  from  thy  fellows,  and  oftentimes 
rapt  in  strange  imaginings.  Fond,  indeed, 
thou  wert  then  as  now  of  remote  places,  and 
of  all  things  fantastic,  and  of  solitude;  a 
dreamy  youth,  moreover,  wont  to  reply 
vaguely  to  questions  of  common  import.  And 
in  this  letter  of  thine,  writ  as  I  say  when  thou 
were  not  yet  in  thy  fifteenth  year,  thou  speak- 
est  strangely  for  a  youth.  *  The  bale  of  life  is 
so  bitter  that  one  hath  perforce  to  occupy 
one's-self  with  such  diversion  as  is  offered  by 
the  strange,  fantastic,  the  terrible/  What 
manner  of  boy  is  it  who  writeth  thus  ?  Again : 
1 1  saw  to-day  a  cloud  of  those  smoke-like  balls 
of  seed  blown  from  a  field  of  dandelions :  how 
beautiful  they  were,  how  exquisite  their  dal- 
liance with  the  light  wind,  how  perfect  each 
delicate  part  —  nothing  out  of  heaven  more 
wondrous  light  and  aerial!  All  were  blown 
upon  a  rotting  dunghill,  amid  whose  indis- 
criminate filth  and  stench  were  perishing  but- 
terflies, and  some  stained  apple-blossoms,  and 
voracious  beetles  and  centipedes  and  other 
horrible  insects,  with  worms,  unwieldy  and 
overgorged,  rejoicing  in  corruption.  And 
when  I  went  home  and  fell  into  a  dream,  I 

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'From  the  Lost  Journals  of  Piero  di  Cosimo 

was  sore  perplexed  whether  I  had  seen  all  this, 
or  had  been  but  deliberating  upon  dear  am- 
bitions, and  fair  hopes,  and  human  life,  and 
the  end  thereof,  and  the  immortality  of  the 
worm/  Ah,  Piero,  Piero,  as  thou  were  then, 
so  art  thou  now;  men  say  strange  things  of 
thy  wayward  life,  though  they  praise  thy 
genius.  And  the  ending  of  thy  letter,  how  sad 
it  is !  '.  But  thee,  Cosimo  Rosselli,  my  master, 
whom  I  love,  can  deep  affection  save  thee  from 
the  ills  of  life  ?  If  so,  thou  art  saved  indeed ! ' 
"  And  now,  dear  Piero,  though  I  have  seen 
nought  of  thee  for  long,  we  seem  to  be  closelier 
drawn  one  to  the  other.  Wilt  thou  not  come 
and  visit  one  who,  whatsoever  men  idly  say 
against  thee,  will  ever  love  thy  person  as  he 
reveres  thy  genius.  Thou  knowest  that  I  am 
thine  in  comradeship  and  love,  Cosimo 
Rosselli/' 

They  say  that  I  live  more  as  a  wild  beast 
than  as  a  man :  because  I  bar  my  doors  against 
the  idle  and  the  over  curious;  eat,  only  when 
I  am  an-hungered;  will  not  have  my  garden 
digged,  nor  the  fruit-trees  pruned;  will  not 
haunt  the  streets,  or  the  taverns,  or  the  guest- 
rooms, nor  talk  much  and  eagerly  of  matters 
that  concern  me  not  at  all.  So  be  it.  Per- 
haps the  wild  beast  is  none  the  less  beloved  of 

387 


William  Sharp 

nature  than  the  foolish  human  babbler.  Why 
should  I  eat  save  when  I  would?  Why  not  be 
solitary,  when  solitude  is  my  festival?  Why 
have  my  garden  digged  or  my  fruit-trees 
pruned,  when  to  me  the  pleasure  is  greater  to 
see  the  branches  trail  upon  the  ground,  to  be- 
hold the  vines  grow  in  their  own  way  (as  the 
human  fool  will  not  do,  but  persuadeth  him- 
self to  ancestral  follies,  and  conventions  of 
outworn  usage).  Nature  hath  heed  of  her 
offspring.  She  hath  birds  to  feed  off  these 
grape  clusters,  whether  they  be  high  and  wind- 
swayed,  or  lie  all  ruined  in  the  mould ;  butter- 
flies, too,  and  moths,  that  haunt  the  sugared 
ooze  upon  over-ripe  fruit ;  and  flame-like  wasps 
darting  hither  and  thither,  with  keen  knives 
cutting  the  purple  skins;  and  the  larvae  of 
many  insects,  and  caterpillars  and  grey  slugs 
and  worms  —  these  hath  she  all  to  feed,  from 
my  vines,  as  well  as  me.  I  am  but  one  of 
these:  but  not  so  happy,  because  I  think;  not 
so  wise,  because  I  hope. 

Last  night,  very  late  (how  white  the 
shining  of  the  moon  upon  the  flood  or  Arno, 
and  how  deathlike  the  city  in  its  silence,  though 
joys  and  woes,  and  passionate  hopes  and  more 
passionate  despairs  quivered,  like  exposed 
nerves,  beneath  the  cold,  calm  exterior),  on 

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my  homeward  way  from  Vallombrosa,  I 
stopped  at  the  house  of  Antonio  del  Monte, 
the  naturalist.  Walking  along  the  chestnut 
glades,  hours  before,  and  wondering  if  ever 
painter  would  be  born  who  would  be  able  to 
paint  living  nature,  and  not  but  our  dull  dream 
of  her  (yet,  in  my  vanity,  thinking  of  that 
landscape  which  I  painted  for  Pope  Sixtus, 
when  I  went  to  Rome  with  Cosimo  Rosselli, 
the  one  which  gained  me  so  much  praise  and 
so  many  commissions)  :  wondering  also,  in  my 
strange  uplifted  ecstasy,  if  in  any  other 
world  —  if  such  there  be,  as  I  shrewdly  sus- 
pect, among  all  those  stars  and  planets  over- 
head, despite  what  the  Prior  said  to  me  about 
the  evil  and  perilous  thoughts  of  the  excom- 
municated and  already  damned  —  wondering 
then  if  there  be  any  more  beautiful  than  this, 
with  such  infinities  of  mercy  and  delight  for 
us,  and  indeed  for  all  living  things,  I  beheld 
somewhat  that  struck  me  as  with  a  chill  of 
fever.  Overhead  I  saw  a  hawk,  motionless  as 
though  painted  against  a  dome  of  blue.  It  fell 
suddenly,  many  a  score  of  paces  —  how  many 
I  could  not  say:  then  hung  hovering;  and  all 
in  a  moment  crashed  upon  a  hen-partridge 
cowering  over  her  chicks,  and  spilt  the  blood 
from  the  cleft  head  upon  the  wheat-stacks 
close  by.   And  further,  scarce  fifty  yards  away 

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William  Sharp 

from  where  I  stood,  a  fierce  stoat  crept  nigher 
and  nigher  to  a  rabbit,  which  crouched  trem- 
bling, giving  forth  a  strange  choking  sob  at 
times,  and  at  the  last  sprang  upon  it  and  drove 
its  teeth  into  the  rabbit's  skull.  And  further, 
I  saw  a  sparrow-hawk  on  a  fir-bough,  tearing 
a  young  thrush  to  pieces,  and  scattering  the 
bloodied  feathers  to  right  and  left.  And 
further,  I  saw  a  dead  and  rotten  branch  fall 
and  crush  a  white  bloom  of  lilies  on  the  sward 
underneath.  And  further,  I  saw  at  my  feet  a 
small  but  agile  insect,  striped  like  a  wasp,  that 
ran  backward  and  sideward  as  easily  as  for- 
ward, and  it  waylaid  a  tender  yellow  moth  and 
nipped  its  head  off  and  devoured  it.  Then  a 
passion  came  into  my  heart,  and  I  went  away 
with  my  soul  sick  within  me.  I  laughed  at  the 
beauty  of  the  world,  and  cursed  the  mercy 
thereof.  And  as  I  passed  the  village  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill  I  heard  a  man,  blaspheming, 
strike  his  wife  with  savage  cruelty;  and  the 
cry  somewhere  of  a  child  wailing  in  pain. 
And  when  I  told  all  to  Antonio  del  Monte,  he 
laughed.  He  said  Nature  was  a  beast  of  prey. 
And  I  —  I  —  have  loved  Nature,  have  wor- 
shipped her!  The  end  of  idolaters  is  death 
within  death. 

I  remember  well  —  it  was  after  my  first  car- 
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From  the  Lost  Journals  of  Piero  di  Cosimo 

nival  in  Rome  —  that  an  idea  of  a  new  and 
striking,  albeit  fantastic,  masquerade,  came 
into  my  mind.  Yet  it  was  not  there  but  in 
Florence  that  I  fulfilled  it;  and  many  years 
later.  I  was  in  great  favour  then  with  the  gay 
Florentine  youth,  ever  alert  to  novelties  as  to 
fierce  deeds :  they  prized  me  for  my  invention 
in  designing  pleasurable  surprises.  Of  a  truth, 
the  masquerades  became  new  things  altogether, 
after  my  dispositions  were  approved  and  car- 
ried into  effect.  Thenceforth  they  became  tri- 
umphal processions,  with  men  and  horses 
gorgeously  and  strangely  apparelled,  and  with 
wild  or  joyous  music.  It  was  a  fine  sight  in- 
deed, when,  along  the  flower-strewn  streets, 
young  men  (nude,  or  with  leopard  or  tiger 
skins  thrown  about  them,  and  garlanded  with 
roses  and  lilies)  rode  upon  foam- white  stal- 
lions, these  snorting  through  blood-red  nostrils 
or  neighing  with  hoarse  clangours  that  rang 
against  the  black  marble  and  basalt  of  the 
Florentine  palaces!  The  sun  shone  upon  the 
ivory  skins  of  the  men  and  the  blanched  milk- 
white  steeds,  and  upon  the  trodden  flowers,  all 
red  and  white  and  yellow  (that  gave  up  an  in- 
describable languorous  and  most  sweet  smell, 
as  though  the  very  soul  of  spring  were  dying 
there  and  passing  away  in  forlorn  fragrances), 
and     upon     the     gay     crowd,     so     brightly 

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William  Sharp 

and  variously  clad,  and  upon  the  beauti- 
ful fair  women  —  many  with  wind-lifted 
hair  and  loosened  bodices,  and  breasts 
that  gleamed  like  globed  water-lilies:  the 
froth  and  foam,  these,  of  the  carnival- 
tide —  laughing,  and  throwing  those  deep 
blood-red  roses  which  are  called  Hearts 
o'  Love,  and  wearing  cream-hued  and  scarlet 
scarfs,  twined  round  and  trailing  from  the 
whitest  of  arms.  And  not  less  striking  the 
processional  array  by  night.  Down  the  dark 
streets  tramped  the  white  horses,  their  riders 
now  in  gleaming  armour,  or  fantastically 
garbed  like  chieftains  of  the  Magyars  or  of  the 
barbaric  East.  Two  by  two  the  riders  went, 
and  betwixt  each  couple  not  fewer  than  two- 
score  ten  stalwart  men  on  foot,  each  waving 
a  burning  torch  in  one  hand  and  carrying  an 
unsheathed  sword  in  the  other,  so  that  it 
caught  and  flashed  forth  a  hundred  lights. 
The  horses  themselves  were  a  sight  to  see,  in 
their  rich  accoutrements!  Thereafter  came  a 
high  car,  garlanded  with  flowers  and  draperies 
and  many  rare  devices.  And  all  this  to  the 
laughter  of  men  and  women,  the  neighing  of 
the  stallions,  the  clanking  of  weapons,  the 
sputtering  of  the  torches,  the  shrill  shrieks  of 
Greek  fifes,  and  the  furious  challenging  blare 
of  fivescore  brazen  trumpets !     Ay,  these  were 

392 


From  the  Lost  Journals  of  Piero  di  Cosimo 

goodly  sights,  though  none  equalled  my  Mas- 
querade of  Death,  which  is  none  other  than 
the  idea  whereof  I  wrote  a  little  ago:  and  of 
which  men  speak  eagerly  to  this  day,  some 
with  pleasant  awe  and  dainty  shudderings, 
others  crossing  themselves  and  muttering  of 
devilish  imaginations  and  Anti-Christ  and 
papal  maledictions. 

I  made  my  Car  of  Death  in  such  secrecy  in 
the  Hall  of  the  Pope,  that  none  —  no!  not 
one  —  saw  it  aforehand.  Then  I  made  all  ar- 
rangements, not  only  in  mine  own  privacy,  but 
wheresoever  the  procession  should  pass  by; 
and  these  arrangements  included  the  way  it- 
self, for  I  had  special  purpose  to  fulfil.  And 
all  who  gave  me  of  their  service  did  so  under  a 
bond  of  secrecy,  for  after  a  while  it  became 
impossible  to  hide,  from  some  at  least  of  my 
assistants,  either  the  parts  or  the  whole  of  my 
scheme.  There  were  two  of  my  pupils  who 
were  of  special  service  to  me,  both  named 
Andrea.  The  one  is  still  called  Andrea  di 
Cosimo:  the  other,  a  greater  than  his  master, 
is  known  throughout  all  the  lands  northward 
of  Rome,  and  even  to  France,  as  Andrea  del 
Sarto.  He  was  brought  to  me  by  my  friend 
Gian'  Barile,  the  Florentine  painter,  as  a  youth 
of  exceeding  promise ;  and  I  came  to  love  him, 
almost  as  the  good  Cosimo  Rosselli  loved  me. 

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William  Sharp 

He  was  ever  a  Passionate  of  art,  from  the 
days  when  he  spent  his  leisure  hours  staring 
at  the  frescoes  by  Leonardo  and  Michel- 
Angelo  in  this  very  Hall  of  the  Pope  where  I 
made  my  Car  of  Death.  Rumours  have 
reached  me  in  mine  old  age  that  Andrea  del 
Sarto,  whom  I  see  no  more  (whom  do  I  see,  I, 
Piero  di  Cosimo,  "  the  mad  painter/'  lonely  as 
the  falling  star  that  last  night  swept  the  circuit 
of  the  heavens,  and  flashed  into  an  oblivion  of 
darkness  beyond  human  ken?) — rumours,  I 
say,  have  reached  me  that  Andrea  declareth 
my  Procession  of  Death  symbolised  the  return 
of  the  Medici.  This  is  false.  It  is  one  to  me 
whether  the  Medici  feed  upon  the  taxes  of  the 
Florentines,  or  upon  those  of  any  alien  city. 
My  device  was  of  fantastical  delight  and  a 
brooding  imagination;  and  I  have  thought  of 
stranger  things  still,  but  have  scarce  dared 
even  to  suggest  them. 

Thus  was  it,  then,  in  the  height  of  the  Car- 
nival. My  great  triumphal  car,  instead  of 
being  drawn  by  prancing  horses  and  gaily 
decorated,  was  yoked  to  black  buffaloes,  each 
of  sombre  and  terrible  seeming,  with  horns 
overlaid  with  whitest  plaster,  and  with  eyes 
made  hollowly  red  and  burning  with  virulent 
pigments.  The  car  itself  was  all  hung  in 
black  sweeping  draperies,  gloomful  as  a  star- 

394 


From  the  Lost  Journals  of  Piero  di  Cosimo 

less  and  moonless  night  with  imminence  of 
rain ;  very  dolorous  to  look  upon ;  and  yet  not 
the  less  so  because,  every  here  and  there, 
painted  with  whitely  gleaming  dead  men's 
bones  and  broad  crosses.  High  up  on  the  car 
sat  the  gigantic  figure  of  Death  himself,  dread- 
ful of  aspect,  and  holding  in  one  outstretched 
hand  his  ever  thirsting  and  hungering  scythe. 
Beneath  him,  huddled  round  the  huge  throne 
whereon  he  sat,  were  dismal  tombs,  blank  and 
awful.  Before  the  slow-moving  car  and  low- 
ering buffaloes,  and  after  it  likewise,  rode  a 
great  number  of  the  dead  on  horseback,  all 
singing  in  a  trembling  voice  the  Miserere. 
The  sight  made  many  quake,  and  some  who 
laughed  broke  into  sobs.  And  at  those  places 
where,  in  former  carnivals,  the  triumphal  pro- 
cession was  wont  to  stop  for  a  sweet  and  joy- 
ous singing,  and  for  the  interchange  of  blythe 
and  happy  mockeries  and  good  fortunes,  it 
now  stopped  also ;  but,  instead,  the  tombs  upon 
the  huge  car  opened,  and  thence  crawled,  or 
glided,  or  sprang  forth  figures  garbed  in  close- 
fitting  black,  all  painted  over  with  the  insignia 
of  death,  the  grinning  skull,  the  long-jointed 
arms  and  legs,  and  all  the  bones  of  the  human 
skeleton.  These  dreadful  things  moved  close 
one  to  another;  and  then,  to  the  drear  accom- 
paniments of  muffled  strains,  sang,  in  a  most 

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William  Sharp 

melancholy  music,  that  solemn  chant  begin- 
ning— 

"Dolor,  pianto  e  penitenza"  etc. 

It   was   a   strange  sight.     Many,   it   is   said, 
dream  of  it  still. 

After  a  still  evening,  and  a  sunsetting  sky  of 
the  most  marvellous  delicate  green,  with  pale 
lemon-yellow  spaces  beyond,  the  weather  has 
changed.  I  noted  how  low  the  fireflies  flit- 
tered among  the  under-branches  of  the 
guelder-rose  and  around  the  bole  of  my  old 
yew,  and  how  sultry  their  wandering  lights. 
The  voices  of  the  dogs  barking  in  the  gardens 
of  Fiesole  came  down  the  slopes  no  more  clear 
and  sharp,  but  as  though  from  afar,  and 
muffled,  as  in  a  dense  snowing.  Nothing 
crackled  in  the  garden.  That  strange  beast 
out  of  Araby  or  Cathay,  which  Messer 
Antonio  gave  me  in  exchange  for  my  portrait 
of  him,  made  a  mewing  noise,  very  weird,  yet 
not  like  any  cat  or  other  animal  I  have 
known  —  rather  like  a  mad  person  mouthing 
in  vague  fear.  Methought  it  might  be  a  lost 
soul.     If  — if  I 

The  rain  at  last !  Streaming,  rushing,  pour- 
ing down ;  the  garden-ways  aflood ;  the  house- 
vents  spouting  forth  upon  the  streets !     Most 

396 


From  the  Lost  Journals  of  Piero  di  Cosimo 

joyous  of  sounds!  Oh,  would  I  were  strid- 
ing along,  singing  my  Song  of  Death,  amid 
the  now  wind-furied  glades,  in  tempestuous 
Vallombrosa ! 


ii  * 

Yesterday  I  completed  a  series  of  drawings 
of  strange  animals,  similar  to  those  of  dragons, 
and  other  rare  creatures,  which  I  made  for 
Giuliano  de'  Medici.  I  have  often  wondered 
if,  in  some  far  country,  a  fortunate  traveller 
will  not  unexpectedly  come  upon  those  half- 
human  creatures  of  which  legends  tell  us. 
How  well  I  remember  going  to  a  wild  rocky 
place  on  the  Pisan  shore,  in  hope  to  see  the 
golden  hair  and  white  breasts  and  waving 
arms  of  those  Ladies  of  the  Deep  of  whom  I 
heard  oft  in  my  boyhood :  or,  at  the  very  least, 
to  catch  the  delicate  sweet  forlornness  of  their 
alien  singing!  One  night  —  it  seems  but 
yester  eve  as  I  recall  it  —  I  lay  in  a  heathy 
dingle,  watching  the  moonlight  resting  like  the 

*  The  following  excerpts,  all  that  remain  of  Piero's 
Journal,  are  plainly  of  a  considerably  later  date  than 
those  just  given.  The  postscript  by  Antonio  del 
Monte  is  written  on  the  page  immediately  succeed- 
ing that  containing  Piero's  latest  entry.  There  is 
some  further  writing  below  the  "  Requiescat,"  ap- 
parently in  Latin,  but,  save  for  a  few  letters,  in- 
decipherable. 

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William  Sharp 

caressing  hand  of  God  upon  the  tired  earth: 
and  listening  to  the  deep  undertone  of  the 
ancient  Sea,  as  he  laid  his  lips  against  the 
shore  and  murmured,  in  a  tongue  unknown  to 
men,  secrets  of  Oblivion,  and  dull,  remote 
prophecies.  There  was  an  absolute  hush  in 
the  air.  Now  and  again  the  pinging  sound  of 
a  gnat  deepened  the  profound  stillness.  Al- 
most I  fancied  that  I  heard  the  serene  aerial 
chiming  of  the  stars.  While  I  lay  there 
adream,  mine  ears  caught  the  sound  of  a  faint 
splashing.  I  thought  it  was  a  fish,  leaping  in 
silver  upon  a  moongold  wave  to  snap  at  a 
wandering  firefly.  Then  as  the  sound  waxed 
more  distinct  and  without  intermission,  I  con- 
ceived the  idea  that  the  sirens  were  swimming 
landward,  and  I  caught  myself  listening 
eagerly  for  that  wild  fantastic  music  which 
lures  mariners  to  the  doom  of  which  no  man 
knoweth  the  manner  or  fulness.  Suddenly  I 
heard  a  low  laugh.  The  sweet  humanity  of  it 
acted  upon  me  like  the  dawn  after  a  night  of 
gloom.  As  silently  as  the  doe  lifts  her  head 
from  the  fern-covert  when  she  scents  from 
afar  off  the  prowling  wolf,  I  raised  myself. 
Per  Baccol  was  I  still  adream?  ...  I  won- 
dered. A  beautiful  girl  ran  to  and  fro  along 
the  sea-marge,  her  ivory  limbs  splashing  far 
and  wide  the  foam  of  each  long,  low,  wave. 

398 


From  the  Lost  Journals  of  Piero  di  Cosimo 

Her  hair  drifted  behind  her  like  the  tresses 
of  a  wind-blown  larch.  Her  beautiful  naked 
body  gleamed  in  the  moonlight,  and  as  she 
moved  hither  and  thither,  now  swiftly  as 
though  pursued,  now  with  dainty  listlessness, 
I  thought  that  I  had  never  seen  aught  lovelier. 
A  little  cape  ran  out  from  the  shore,  and  as  she 
neared  it  she  laughed  low  again  and  again: 
low,  and  yet  so  that  I  heard  it  easily.  It 
thrilled  me  unspeakably.  There  was  in  it  such 
unfathomable  pain,  and  yet  with  —  oh,  such  a 
subtle  rare  magic  of  delight!  I  felt  that  I 
could  —  nay,  that  I  would  —  follow  that  low- 
haunting  laugh,  and  that  ideal  beauty,  even  to 
the  ends  of  the  earth,  even  though  I  were  led 
into  places  of  death,  unspeakable  because  of 
their  terror.  Suddenly  she  —  this  thing  of 
beauty  and  grace  —  disappeared  as  in  a  wave, 
and  I  saw  her  no  more.  With  the  speed  of  a 
man  fleeing  for  his  life  I  raced  towards  the 
beach.  Strange  that  I  should  notice,  and  for  a 
second  or  two  halt,  because  of  the  shrill  sud- 
den cry  of  an  aziola.  It  mocked  me,  I  thought. 
But  when  I  reached  the  shore,  nought  was 
there.  There  was  the  same  vast  stretch  of  the 
moonlit  deep:  the  same  long  low  wave,  for 
ever  breaking  in  foam  out  of  stillness,  like  the 
froth  upon  a  dying  man's  lips:  the  same  in- 
scrutable silence  on  sea  and  land,  save  for  the 

399 


William  Sharp 

pinging  of  the  gnats  below  the  cystus-bushes, 
and  the  low  thrilling  monotone  out  of  the  heart 
of  the  waters.  Hastily  I  ran  out  upon  the 
little  cape :  but  no,  nought  could  I  see  beyond 
it  nor  close  under.  Had  I,  then,  beheld  one  of 
those  mysterious  creatures  who  live  in  Ocean, 
and  lament  a  lost  humanity?  I  wandered  all 
night  long  by  the  margin  of  the  sea,  but  heard 
no  unwonted  sound,  save  the  crying  of  a 
strange  bird  far  waveward:  saw  no  unusual 
sight,  save  a  furtive  phosphorescence  which 
came  and  went  upon  the  dark  surface  of  the 
waters,  like  an  evil  smile  upon  the  face  of  an 
Oriental  satrap  dreaming  of  cruel  delights. 
But  about  dawn  I  met  a  haggard  fisherman, 
who  stared  at  me  blankly  and  muttered  some 
foolishness.  From  him,  in  reply  to  my  eager 
questions,  I  learned  that  one  Mariana,  the 
daughter  of  a  gentleman  of  Pisa,  had  recently 
become  distraught  because  of  the  exceeding 
beauty  of  a  youth  of  whom  she  had  dreamt  — 
because  of  his  surpassing  loveliness,  but  still 
more  because  of  his  visionary  immortality, 
which  could  not  mate  with  her  earthliness. 
She  had  passed  through  Pisa  as  one  dazed, 
and  had  been  seen  at  sundown  watching  the 
inward-moving  tide,  and  laughing  strangely 
to  herself  the  while.  None  had  seen  or  heard 
of  her  since.     But  this  had  occurred  many 

400 


From  the  Lost  Journals  of  Piero  di  Cosimo 

days —  ay,  weeks  —  before  mine  own  adven- 
ture. To  this  day,  in  all  verity,  I  know  not 
whether  'twas  Mariana  of  Pisa  whom  I  saw 
passing  like  a  dream  through  the  wave,  or 
some  Donna  Ignota  born  of  the  moonshine  and 
the  sea. 

To-night,  as  I  walked  in  my  wilderness  (so 
I  lovingly  call  my  garden),  filled  full  as  it  is 
with  all  manner  of  strange  things  and  desolate 
growths,  I  noticed  an  unwonted  flashing  of 
red  lights.  Ever  and  again  it  happened,  and 
once  so  that  I  was  almost  dazzled.  At  first  I 
thought  some  rare  creature,  a  lizard  or  sala- 
mander from  afar,  or  it  might  be  some  gem 
or  old-time  weapon,  lay  amid  the  mould;  but 
at  the  last  I  found  to  my  surprise  that  this 
flashing  of  light  was  caused  by  two  or  three 
blooms  among  a  cluster  of  nasturtiums.  One, 
in  particular,  glowed  like  the  lantern  of  a 
monk  in  a  dark  wine-vault.  I  knew  not  till 
then  that  flowers  gave  off  this  mysterious 
effulgence,  though,  now  I  think  of  it,  Sulei- 
man has  told  me  that  he  has  seen  something 
of  the  kind  in  the  region  beyond  Nilus.  It  has 
made  me  think.  Perhaps  all  created  things 
give  off  some  coloured  emanation.  I  should 
like  to  paint  the  people  going  to  and  fro  in 
the  streets  of  Florence,  with  all  their  hidden 

401 


William  Sharp 

sins  and  made  visible  in  furtive  flashes  of 
scarlet  and  purple,  and  wan  green  and  yellow, 
and  bloodied  red!  Cristo,  how  the  Medici 
would  reward  me  for  my  pains  if  I  painted 
them!  'Twould  be  a  short  shrift  then  for  the 
hermit-painter,  Piero  di  Cosimo!  Nay,  but 
seriously,  what  if  some  of  us  have  this  quality  ? 
'Twould  account  for  the  divers  strange  and 
terrifying  apparitions  of  the  dead,  of  which 
rumour  is  oft,  in  the  dark  hours,  so  garrulous. 
(On  the  morrow.) 
I  slept  little  last  night,  for  a  deep  brooding 
over  the  thing  of  which  I  have  writ  above.  I 
have  decided  to  tell  Alessandro  Bardi  that  I 
shall  paint  him  and  his  Caterina  after  all. 
How  I  hate  old  Luigi  Bardi!  The  insolence 
of  the  purse-proud  man!  How  dared  he  in- 
sult me  that  day  on  the  Ponte  Vecchio?  — 
sneering  at  me  as  a  madman  because  I  had 
stood  staring  for  an  hour  or  more  upon  the 
marvellous  violet  lights  in  the  shallow  flood 
of  Arno,  laughing  loudly  while  I  told  him  that 
that  violet  had  to  be  waited  for  for  weeks  at 
a  time;  mocking  with  his  twisted  mouth, 
"  Violet !  violet !  Corpo  di  Cristo,  hark  to  the 
man !  He  cannot  even  see  aright ! "  Fool 
that  he  was !  Howsoever,  it  is  true  that  paint- 
ers see  deeper  into  colour,  as  falconers  see 
further  than  goldsmiths.     And  yet,  because  of 

402 


From  tHe  Lost  Journals  of  Piero  di  Cosimo 

his  ducats,  he  thought  he  could  obtain  a 
portrait  of  his  son  and  his  mistress  from  me! 
No  doubt  —  si,  si  amico  mio  —  you  shall  have 
the  portrait  —  eccol  Piero  di  Cosimo  shall 
paint  your  son  and  the  twilight-eyed  Caterina. 

Tis  a  month  since  I  have  writ  aught  in 
these  pages.  Alessandro  and  Caterina  are 
both  dead:  died  o'  the  plague,  it  is  said.  I 
know  better. 

They  came  to  me.  I  made  that  a  condition. 
I  painted  both  upon  one  canvas.  A  comely 
youth,  Alessandro:  Caterina's  beauty,  melan- 
choly, exquisite,  like  an  autumnal  eve  on  the 
maremma.  How  they  loved  each  other !  Oft- 
times  I  laid  down  my  brush,  and  once  I  burst 
into  laughter  so  loud  and  so  long  that  Bardi, 
the  good  youth,  hesitatingly  came  towards  me, 
as  a  stag  might  approach  a  hyena.  But  I 
waved  him  back,  with  muttered  execrations. 
Had  he  gained  but  one  glimpse  of  my  canvas 
he  would  have  slain  me  forthwith.  Oftener, 
I  simulated  great  abstraction  in  labour,  and 
watched  them  furtively.  Her  favourite  atti- 
tude was  to  lean  her  head  against  his  breast, 
and  then,  many  a  time,  she  sang  a  wondrous 
sweet  song  of  the  Trevisan  (whereof  she  was 
a  native),  so  that  my  tawdry  workroom  be- 
came glorified,  I  know  not  how.    His  pleasure 

403 


William  Sharp 

was  to  stroke  her  long  lustrous  hair,  and  to 
look  dreamily  into  those  shadowy  eyes  of  hers, 
where  immortality  seemed  to  brood  amid 
depths  of  death.  She  was  with  child,  and  oft 
looked  suddenly  at  naught,  in  a  wild  trouble, 
as  I  have  seen  a  white  hart  do  at  the  falling 
echo  of  a  far-off  baying  hound.  Ah!  this 
terrible  brutality  of  motherhood.  It  is  a  de- 
vice of  nature  to  humiliate  the  soul,  of  which 
she  is  jealous  unto  death.  She  has  disguised 
it  in  a  rainbow,  as  a  Borgia  might  convey  a 
debilitating,  slow-killing  poison  in  an  exquisite 
rose.  .  .  .  Well,  I  watched  them  oft.  The 
other  eventide  I  was  sitting  alone,  brooding 
upon  the  frightful  thing  before  me,  all  but  fin- 
ished it  was,  when  Suleiman  entered.  I  did 
not  hear  him  knock,  nor  do  I  believe  he  did, 
though  he  so  averred.  He  is  a  dark  and  evil 
spirit.  He  stared  at  my  canvas,  and  an  awful 
look  lurked  about  his  eyes  and  mouth.  Then 
he  laughed.  Thereafter  he  told  me  that  he, 
too,  bore  a  bitter  grudge  against  Luigi  Bardi. 
Dio  mio,  how  it  thrilled  me  when  the  swart 
Oriental  —  Suleiman  el  Moro,  he  calls  him- 
self, though  hell  knows  his  accursed  name  — 
confessed  that  he  had  woven  a  spell  upon  my 
brushes,  so  that  demons  had  entered  into  them. 
"  To  what  end  ? "  I  asked,  with  my  tongue 
moving    like    a    wounded    thing    in    time    o' 

404 


From  the  Lost  Journals  of  Piero  di  Cosimo 

drought.  "  So  that  when  Luigi  Bardi's  son 
and  his  love  look  upon  your  painting  they  shall 
become  what  you  have  depicted  them."  In 
horror  I  rose,  thrust  the  grim  saturnine  Sulei- 
man aside,  and  ran  from  the  house,  as  one 
pursued  by  a  demon.  For  I  had  painted  Ales- 
sandro  as  the  Lust  of  a  Devil,  and  Caterina 
as  the  Desire  of  a  Beast.  Twas  a  wild  re- 
venge upon  Bardi :  but  now  God  had  turned  it 
against  me.  I  stayed  all  the  night  with  An- 
tonio del  Monte,  moaning  so,  at  times,  that  he 
cried  to  me  at  last  a  wolf  were  fitter  company. 
On  the  morrow,  filled  with  remorse,  and  re- 
solved to  end  my  folly,  I  hastened  back  to  my 
house.  As  I  passed  under  the  shadow  of  the 
Duomo  I  met  Pietro  Avante,  who  asked  me  if 
I  had  heard  that  Sandro  Bardi  and  Caterina 
Da  Ru  had  gone  secretly  from  Florence  —  so 
it  was  said,  at  the  least,  for  nowhere  were  they 
to  be  found.  My  heart  sank  deep,  deep, 
though  I  put  a  brave  front  against  dis- 
astrous fate.  At  the  end  of  the  Borgo  di  San 
Sepolcro  my  late  pupil,  Giraldo  da  Signa, 
stopped  me,  and  asked  me  if  I  knew  whither 
Suleiman  el  Moro  was  bound.  "  Where- 
fore?" I  asked.  "Because,  as  I  was  going 
home,  an  hour  before  dawn  —  having  been  at 
the  carousal  of  Berto  Danoli,  who  is  returning 
to  Vlenice  as  the  heir  of  his  old  uncle  Bene- 

405 


William  Sharp 

detto  —  curse  him  for  a  miser!  —  I  descried 
El  Moro  riding  upon  a  white  horse,  and  me- 
thought  he  had  the  face  of  a  corpse  as  he 
stared,  in  his  swift  passing,  towards  the  way  of 
the  Pisan  Gate."  "  I  know  not,  fool,"  I  mut- 
tered ;  "  think  you  the  accursed  Egyptian,  or 
whatever  he  be,  is  my  son  ?  n  But  thereafter 
I  hurried  with  trembling  limbs  to  my  house. 
When  I  entered  the  workroom  I  thought  my 
heart-strings  would  break :  'twas  as  though  my 
heart  were  a  wet  cloth  wrung  by  a  woman  on 
Arno-side.  There  lay  Alessandro  Bardi  and 
Caterina,  not  only  dead,  but  horrible  in  death : 
with  a  likeness,  appalling,  frightful,  to  their 
ghastly  phantasma  on  the  canvas.  I  know  not 
how  they  died:  whether  she  shrieked  and  fell 
(they  must  have  come  earlier  than  their  wont, 
and  seized  the  opportunity  to  look  at  my  can- 
vas), or  whether  he  turned  and  slew  her  and 
then  strangled  himself,  or  whether  demons 
wrought  their  death,  I  know  not.  They  looked 
as  though  they  had  died  of  the  Black  Pest. 
Hastily  I  dashed  paint  this  way  and  that 
across  my  accursed  picture,  and  scraped  the 
distorted  features  with  the  palette  knife,  till  it 
was  as  ghastly  a  ruin  as  the  love  of  Sandro 
and  Caterina.  Then  again  I  rushed  out,  cry- 
ing, "The  Pest!  the  Pest!"  At  first  I  was 
taken  for  mad.     I  know  not  how  it  might  have 

406 


From  the  Lost  Journals  of  Piero  di  Cosimo 

gone  with  me;  but  the  authorities,  fearing  to 
have  even  the  name  of  the  plague  mentioned, 
sent  for,  and  privily  removed,  the  two  dead 
bodies,  and  had  them  burned  on  a  waste  spot 
half  a  league  behind  the  wester  slope  of 
Fiesole.  And  now  it  is  all  over  —  all  gone  — 
all  done.  It  might  be  a  horror  of  the  night, 
but  for  this  letter  from  Luigi  Bardi,  with  its 
awful  curse;  but  for  this  oily,  dull-savoured, 
blood-red  pebble,  come  to  me  this  morning, 
whence  I  know  not,  without  word  of  any  kind, 
without  indication,  save  the  word  "  Suleiman  " 
cried  hollowly  behind  me  by  —  by  —  some- 
thing. 

Old  age  is  terrible  when  manhood  is  prosti- 
tuted in  it.  It  ought  to  be  as  full  of  peace  and 
beauty  as  a  snow-covered  landscape  in  sun- 
light, as  happy  as  a  child's  laughter  among  un- 
folding blossoms.  To  be  a  derelict  upon  the 
ocean  of  life  is  worse  than  any  sudden  wreck- 
age. Death  itself  can  never  be  truly  abject: 
living  death  is  the  grave :  corruption. 

Sorely  distraught  have  I  been  of  late.  No 
sound  could  I  withstand.  The  very  sight  of 
priests,  monks,  councillors,  any  one  almost,  of 
flies  and  shadows  even,  has  made  me  quiver 
like    an    aspen.     Oftentimes    I    have   thrown 

407 


William  Sharp 

down  my  brushes,  cursing,  because  of  my  im- 
potent hands.  They  would  give  me  medicine. 
There  is  but  one  potion  for  me.  They  would 
poison  me,  no  doubt.     But  I  am  already  dead. 

0  God,  the  beauty  of  the  world! 

•  ••«••• 

'Tis  all  one  ravening  horror.  And  I  have 
worshipped  Nature !    Fool  —  fool  —  fool  that 

1  was!  It  is  a  Monster  with  a  passion  for 
Death.  It  is  a  Creature,  devouring,  insatiable. 
We  are  but  the  froth  blown  for  a  moment 
above  its  churning  jaws. 

Is  there  anything  more  beautiful  than  a 
windless  midsummer  eve,  within  the  hour  of 
moonrise?  Nothing  stirs,  save  the  flittering 
bats.  The  slow-circling  fireflies  swing  their 
flames  among  the  cypress  boughs.  Nature  is 
dead,  or  asleep.  God  leans  downward  wist- 
fully, and  looks  betwixt  the  stars  of  His  azure 
veil  upon  the  world  the  foolish  priests  say  is 
His.  Somewhere  in  the  unsunned  gyres  of 
infinity,  the  unknown  God,  the  third  arid  con- 
quering Protagonist,  looks  upward,  with  dim 
prevision,  beyond  the  twin  Portals  of  his 
Rest  —  Oblivion  and  Chaos. 

(Appended  in  the  Script  of  Messer  Antonio 
408 


William  Sharp 

del    Monte,    Chemist    and    Naturalist,    of 

Florence.) 

Y ester-morn,  not  having  seen  the  maestro 
for  many  days,  and  knowing  how  his  madness 
has  been  growing  upon  him,  I  went  through 
his  desolate  garden,  strewn  with  the  bones  of 
the  many  rare  beasts  and  what  not  he  hath 
purchased  from  me,  and  ruinous  with  decay 
and  damp  vicious  glooms,  and  then  up  the 
broken  marble  stairs  to  his  door.  There  was 
a  weight  against  it.  I  pushed  it  to,  and  lo, 
the  corpse  of  Piero,  with  a  most  awful  horror 
on  its  face,  lying  head  towards  me,  with  the 
feet  still  upon  the  stairway.  I  note  this  here 
at  once,  lest  any  questioning  should  arise. 
Here,  also,  I  record  his  own  wish,  told  me  but 
a  half-month  ago,  that  he  was  to  be  buried  in 
his  garden,  betwixt  a  great  heavy  iron  crucifix 
that  would  cover  him,  and  an  equally  huge  and 
heavy  iron  cross.  Upon  the  former  was  to  be 
engraved  the  single  word,  SPES,  upon  the 
latter,  NATURA. 

(Requiescat    in    Pace:     Antonio    Barili    del 
Monte.) 


409 


The  Birth,  Death   and  Resur- 
rection of  a  Tear 


THE  BIRTH,  DEATH  AND  RESURREC- 
TION OF  A  TEAR 

It  is  not  only  the  haschisch  eater  who  can,  in 
a  moment,  pass  from  the  exigent  life  of  the 
commonplace  to  the  dear  tyranny  of  dreams. 
How  trivial,  how  laboriously  methodical,  is 
that  vulgar  approach  to  pleasure  —  the  pipe  of 
the  opium-smoker,  or  the  drugged  coffee  of  the 
slave  of  Indian  hemp. 

There  is  another  avenue  to  the  gate  of 
dreams.  Those  who  have  the  secret  may 
enter  at  any  moment  from  the  maze  of  life 
and  move  swiftly  to  the  goal :  more  swift  than 
the  desert  mare,  the  fleetfoot  wind. 

Thus  it  was,  that  to-day,  when  amid  ordi- 
nary surroundings,  and  alone  with  a  dear 
friend  to  whom  I  had  come  to  say  farewell  — 
a  word  unsaid  after  all,  and  this  because  of  a 
dream  —  I  was  suaded  from  myself  by  one  of 
those  unexpected  visionary  reveries  which  re- 
lieve even  the  weariest  days  of  the  dreamer. 

It  was  not  willingly  I  had  gone  to  see  my 
friend.  My  love  for  her  had  grown  too  bit- 
ter, and  at  last  I  had  come  to  believe  that  she 
was  of  a  hard  and  cynical  spirit.  But  for  my 
own  sake,  as  well  as  for  what  lay  beyond,  I 
determined  to  make  an  end  of  what  was  be- 

413 


William  Sharp 

come  intolerable.  Nor  was  I  allured  from  my 
purpose  by  her  beauty,  her  grace,  her  ex- 
quisitely restrained  cordiality.  The  bitterness 
of  renunciation,  the  greater  bitterness  of  a  con- 
viction that  she  felt  only  with  the  brain  and  the 
nerves,  and  not  with  the  heart,  restrained  me. 

We  had  talked  of  many  things  of  no  real 
moment,  and  yet  I  was  no  nearer  what  I  had 
to  say.  I  remembered  the  words  of  a  friend 
who  also  had  loved  her,  and  loved  vainly: 
"  She  is  beautiful  as  the  sea,  and  as  cold,  as 
emotionless,  as  deadly  cruel." 

I  know  not  by  what  accident  it  was  that,  as 
she  stooped  over  the  silver  tea-tray,  which 
caught  the  vagrant  glow  of  the  fire  —  all  of 
light  and  sound  there  was  in  that  quietude  of 
dusk  —  a  sparkle  as  of  a  diamond  came  from 
behind  the  long  dark  eyelashes  which  so 
greatly  enhanced  her  beauty.  It  was  an  un- 
shed tear ;  for  I  saw  it  glimmer  like  a  dewdrop 
amid  twilight  shadows,  then  suspend  tremu- 
lously. Yet  it  did  not  fall  at  last  down  that 
lovely  sunbrown  cheek  no  bloom  of  any  "  sun'd 
September  apricock "  could  outvie :  as  dew 
it  came  and  was  absorbed  again. 

Whether  the  dear  surprise,  or  the  mere 
white  glimmer  of  that  errant  herald  from  the 
heart,  fascinated  me,  I  know  not ;  but  suddenly 
my  mind  was  in  that  motionless  suspension 

414 


The  Birth,  Death  and  Resurrection  of  a  Tear 

which  the  windhover  has  when  she  lifts  her 
breast  against  a  sudden  tide  of  air. 

I  saw  before  me,  and  far  behind,  a  lustrous 
expanse  of  waters.  The  sun-dazzle  was  upon 
those  nearest  to  me,  and  the  wind,  frothing  the 
little  gold  and  silver  cups  tossed  continuously 
by  the  blue  wavelets,  made  a  sunny  laughter 
for  leagues  amid  the  yellow-meaded  prairies  of 
azure.  Beyond,  the  saffron  shimmer  lay  upon 
hyacinthine  hollows  deepening  to  limitless 
spaces  of  purple.  Then  the  sky-line  and  the 
sea-line  met,  and  blue  within  blue  was  lost. 

I  had  scarce  apprehended  the  vast  extent, 
the  near  witching  beauty,  when  I  realised  that 
I  was  submerged  in  fathomless  depths.  I  had 
not  fallen,  and  had  no  sense  of  falling :  rather, 
without  sound  or  motion,  the  depths  had  in- 
visibly expanded,  and  now  enfolded  me. 

So  wrought  by  wonder  was  I,  that  when  I 
saw  a  green  lawn  stretching  before  me  I  did 
not  know  whether  to  advance  or  to  look  upon 
it  as  one  of  the  fluid  lawns  of  the  sea.  Then 
I  reflected  that  in  the  depths  of  the  sea-water 
would  not  be  of  a  sunlit  green.  The  next 
moment  I  was  walking  swiftly  across  it,  and 
I  remember  how  soft  and  springy  was  the  turf 
beneath  my  feet. 

All  sense  of  the  marvellous  had  now  left  me. 
When,  overhead,  I  heard  the  rapturous  song 

415 


William  Sharp 

of  lark  after  lark,  I  was  no  more  astonished. 
Why  should  I  be,  when  my  eyes  were  rilled 
with  the  beauty  of  the  wild-roses  which  fell 
in  veils  over  the  wilding  hedges  and  almost  hid 
the  honeysuckle  and  fragrant  briar:  when 
every  sense  was  charmed  by  the  loveliness  of 
each  garth  and  Copse  I  passed  on  my  way  into 
a  woodland,  in  whose  recesses  I  could  hear  the 
cooing  of  doves  and  the  windy  chimes  of  cas- 
cades and  singing  brooks  ? 

Never  had  I  seen  any  forest  so  beautiful. 
As  I  advanced,  the  trees  had  an  aspect  of 
ancient  grandeur,  or  of  a  loveliness  which 
went  to  my  heart.  Avenue  after  avenue,  vista 
after  vista,  disclosed  innumerable  perspectives 
of  green  foliage  and  the  hues  of  a  myriad  flow- 
ers, with  golden  sunlight  breaking  everywhere, 
and  overhead  and  between  the  high  boughs  a 
sky  of  a  deep  joy-giving  blue.  White  birds, 
and  others  rainbow-hued,  drifted  through  the 
sun-warm  spaces  or  flashed  from  branch  to 
branch.  The  fern  quivered  every  here  and 
there  with  the  leaping  of  the  fawns,  the  bleat- 
ing of  the  does  audible  the  while  by  some  un- 
seen watercourse.  Some  of  the  flowers  were 
familiar:  wild  hyacinth  and  windflowers, 
orchis  and  the  purple  anemone,  kingcups  and 
daffodils,  and  many  others,  all  children  of  the 
Spring,  but  otherwise  without  heed  of  their 

416 


The  Birth,  Death  and  Resurrection  of  a  Tear 

wonted  season,  so  that  the  primrose  and  the 
wild-rose  were  neighbours,  and  snowdrops  and 
aconites  clustered  under  the  red  hawthorn. 

But  there  were  also  others  which  were 
strange.  Many  of  these  seemed  to  me  as 
though  rubies  and  emeralds  and  rainbow-hued 
opals  had  risen  from  their  rocky  beds  in  the 
depths  of  the  earth,  and  stolen  to  the  surface, 
and  bared  their  breasts  to  the  kisses  of  the 
sunflame  which  gave  them  life  and  joy  even 
while  it  consumed  them  with  its  passionate 
ardour. 

The  birds,  too,  were  wonderful  to  behold. 
There  were  among  them  what  seemed  blooms 
of  pink  or  azure  fire  with  wings  of  waving 
light :  and  the  song  of  these  was  so  wilderingly 
sweet  that  Ecstacy  and  Silence,  walking  hand 
in  hand  through  that  Eden  of  Dream,  knew 
not  when  they  became  one,  the  Joy  that  cannot 
be  seen  nor  uttered  nor  divined. 

Through  all  this  loveliness  I  went  as  one 
wrought  by  the  gladness  of  death.  Some  such 
rapture  as  this  must  oftentimes  allure  the  lib- 
erated soul  when,  the  veil  rent,  the  air  of  a 
new  and  stronger  delight  is  inhaled  at  every 
breath. 

Then,  all  at  once,  I  knew  I  was  not  alone  in 
that  lovely  Avalon.  Voices  of  surpassing 
sweetness     prevailed      through     the     green 

417 


William  Sharp 

branches.  I  thought  at  first  that  the  whisper- 
ing leaves  were  the  sighs  and  laughter  of  the 
happy  dead.  One  haunting  sweet  voice  I  fol- 
lowed, a  delicate,  remote,  exquisite  ululation, 
faint  as  dream-music  across  the  dark  sea  of 
sleep.  Like  one  winged  I  went,  for  the  trees 
slid  motionlessly  by,  as,  to  the  wind,  they  must 
seem  to  recede  from  his  lifting  pinions. 

In  the  very  inmost  Eden  of  that  paradise  I 
stood  at  last,  silent,  intent.  Beside  a  fount, 
whose  crystalline  wave  was  filled  with  sun- 
gold  and  frothed  with  sun-dazzle,  bent  a  spirit 
of  a  loveliness  of  which  I  cannot  speak.  She 
was  as  though  she  were  a  beam  of  light  from 
the  places,  east  of  the  sun  and  west  of  the 
moon,  where  the  young  seraphim  for  joy  re- 
weave  the  perishing  rainbows. 

About  her  were  beautiful  tremulous  phan- 
toms, coming  and  going,  appearing  and  vanish- 
ing. These  were  joys  and  hopes,  aspirations 
and  unspoken  prayers,  dear  desires  and  long- 
ings and  wistful  yearnings,  fair  thoughts  and 
delicate  dreams. 

From  her  I  looked  into  that  halcyon  water. 
The  sparkle,  the  shine  of  it,  entranced  me. 

At  last  I  spoke.  She  turned,  glanced  at 
me  with  a  shy,  sweet  serenity,  and,  after  a 
brief  incertitude,  beckoned  to  me  to  ap- 
proach. 

41a 


The  Birth,  Death  and  Resurrection  of  a  Tear 

I  knew  that  I  had  never  looked  upon  any 
one  so  lovely;  yet,  her  face  was  vaguely  fa- 
miliar. Doubtless  it  was  Ideala,  long  sought, 
long  dreamed  of. 

"  Look,"  she  whispered,  as  soon  as  she  had 
slipped  her  hand  into  mine.  Together  we 
bent  over  the  sunlit  fount.  It  was  like  an 
opal  in  its  lovely  hues.  In  the  very  core  of  it 
I  saw  what  seemed  the  most  exquisite  pearl. 
This  appeared  to  me  to  be  forming,  for  every 
moment  it  grew  lovelier.  Suddenly  it  rose, 
came  to  the  surface,  and,  for  a  few  seconds, 
was  filled  with  sunlight,  before  it  welled  into 
one  of  the  many  golden  conduits  which,  I  now 
noticed,  led  from  the  fountain. 

A  few  seconds:  yet  in  that  single  pulse  of 
time  I  learned  a  wonderful  thing.  "  Do  you 
see  this  fount  ?  "  said  Ideala  again,  in  the  same 
low  thrilling  whisper :  "  it  is  the  heart  of  my 
heart." 

"  Of  your  heart,  O  beautiful  Dream?  " 

"  Yes.  Do  you  not  know  that  you  are  now 
in  my  heart?  All  this  fair  Eden  you  have 
traversed,  since  you  came  from  the  deep  wave 
that  brought  you  hither,  is  my  heart.  You 
saw  the  flowers,  you  heard  the  songs  of  the 
birds,  the  voice  of  cool  waters,  the  murmur  of 
strange  winds:     Did  none  interpret  to  you?  " 

"And    all    these    lovely    phantoms,    these 

419 


William  Sharp 

beautiful  Hopes  and  Aspirations  and  tender 
Sympathies  and  brave  Heroisms  ?  " 

"  They  are  my  helpers  and  servers ;  but  I 
do  not  see  them." 

"  And  this  fount,  this  sunlit  water  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  Fount  of  Tears  that  is  in  every 
woman's  heart.  Now  it  is  warmed  with  flood- 
ing sunshine,  because  I  love.  Thus  it  is  that 
the  tears  that  rise  are  single  just  now :  and  are 
so  beautiful,  wrought  as  they  are  of  rainbow- 
hope/' 

"  And  who  are  you  ? "  I  cried,  a  sudden, 
wild,  passionate  hope  coming  upon  me  like  a 
tempest,  making  me  as  a  leaf  before  the  wind. 

She  looked  at  me  amazedly. 

Her  lips  moved,  but  I  caught  no  sound.  A 
swift  mist  was  rising  between  us.  She  had 
withdrawn  her  hand,  and  though  eagerly  I 
stretched  my  arms  I  could  not  reach  her. 

A  name,  the  dearest  of  all  names,  burst 
from  my  lips.  I  saw  a  wonderful  light  in  the 
beautiful  face.  The  eyes,  the  eyes  told  me  all. 
Lamps  of  home,  sweet  lamps  of  home ! 

There  was  a  rush  of  waters.  The  tear  I 
had  seen  welling  from  her  heart  was  the  same 
as  that  which  died  on  her  eyes,  and  had  in  its 
death  borne  me  to  the  lovely  sanctuaries  of  her 
heart.  Again,  it  expanded  into  a  great  wave ; 
again  a  limitless  ocean  stretched  beyond  me; 

420 


The  Birth,  Death  and  Resurrection  of  a  Tear 

again  I  was  enveloped  and  borne  swiftly  from 
depth  below  to  depth  above,  till  the  senses  for 
one  flashing  second  reeled  as  the  soul  returned 
from  its  moment's  flight. 

Did  I  say  an  unshed  tear  gleamed  upon  me 
from  behind  the  dark  eyelashes  of  her  whom  I 
loved,  and  so  little  understood,  so  scarcely 
knew? 

Truly,  I  saw  it  glimmer  like  a  dewdrop  amid 
twilight  shadows:  then  suspend  tremulously: 
but  now  —  how  long  ago,  or  but  the  breath  of 
a  moment?  —  that  which  had  been  born  in 
longing  and  had  died  in  pain,  knew,  now,  a 
lovely  resurrection. 

My  heart  was  full  of  a  great  joy,  a  great 
reverence.  I  rose,  trembled,  and  at  that  mo- 
ment the  tear  fell  down  the  lovely  sunbrown 
cheek  no  bloom  of  any  *'  sun'd  September  apri- 
cock  "  could  outyie. 


421 


The  Hill- Wind 


THE  HILL-WIND 

When  the  Hill- Wind  awoke  by  the  tarn  the 
noontide  heats  were  over.  The  blithe  mountain- 
air,  fragrant  with  thyme  and  honey-ooze,  with 
odours  of  pine  and  fir,  flowed  softly  across  the 
uplands.  The  sky  was  of  a  deep,  lustrous, 
wind-washed  azure,  turquoise-tint  where  it 
caught  the  sun-flood  southerly  and  westerly. 
A  few  snowy  wisps  of  vapour  appeared  here 
and  there,  curled  like  fantastic  sleighs  or 
sweeping  aloft  as  the  tails  of  wild  horses ;  then 
quickly  became  attenuated,  or  even  all  at  once 
and  mysteriously  disappeared.  Far  and  near 
the  grouse  called,  or  rose  from  the  cranberry- 
patches  in  the  ling  in  their  abrupt  flurries  of 
flight,  beating  the  hot  air  with  their  pinions 
till  it  was  vibrant  with  the  echoing  whirr.  The 
curlews  wheeled  about  the  water-courses,  cry- 
ing plaintively.  Faint  but  haunting  sweet  as 
remote  chimes,  the  belling  of  the  deer  was 
audible  in  the  mountain-hollows. 

A  myriad  life  thrilled  the  vast  purple  up- 
land. The  air  palpitated  with  the  innumer- 
able suspirations  of  plant  and  flower,  insect 
and  bird  and  beast.  Curious  in  the  tarn  the 
speckled  trout  caught  the  glint  of  the  wander- 

425 


William  Sharp 

ing  sunray ;  far  upon  the  heights  the  fleeces  of 
the  small  hill-sheep  seemed  like  patches  of 
snow  in  the  sunlight;  remote  on  the  scaur 
beyond  the  highest  pines,  the  eagle,  as  he 
stared  unwaveringly  upon  the  wilderness  be- 
neath him,  shone  resplendent  as  though  com- 
pact of  polished  bronze  set  with  gems. 

Every  sound,  every  sight,  was  part  of  the 
intimate  life  of  the  Hill- Wind.  All  was 
beautiful :  real.  The  remote  attenuated  scream 
of  the  eagle:  the  high  thin  cry  of  the  kestrel 
when  doubling  upon  herself  in  hawking  the 
moorland ;  the  floating  lilt  of  the  yellow-ham- 
mer :  the  air-eddies  sliding  through  the  honey- 
laden  spires  of  heather,  or  whispering  among 
the  canna  and  gale:  the  myriad  murmur  from 
the  leagues  of  sunswept  ling  and  from  the  dim 
grassy  savannahs  which  underlay  that  purple 
roof:  each  and  all  were  to  her  as  innate 
voices. 

For  a  long  time  she  lay  in  a  happy  suspen- 
sion of  all  thought  or  activity,  fascinated  by 
the  reflection  of  herself  in  the  tarn.  Lovely 
was  the  image.  The  soft,  delicately-rounded 
white  limbs,  the  flower-like  body,  seemed 
doubly  white  against  the  wine-dark  purple  of 
the  bell-heather  and  the  paler  amethyst  of  the 
ling.  The  large  shadowy  eyes,  like  purple-blue 
pansies,  dreamed  upward  from  the  face  in  the 

426 


The  Hill-Wind 

water.  Beautiful  as  was  the  sun-dazzle  in 
the  hair  that  was  about  her  head  as  a  glory 
of  morning,  even  more  beautiful  was  the 
shimmer  of  gold  and  fleeting  amber  shot 
through  the  rippled  surface  and  clear-brown 
undercalm  of  the  tarn;  where  also  was  mir- 
rored, with  a  subtler  beauty  than  above,  the 
tremulous  sulphur-butterfly,  poising  its  yellow 
wings  as  it  clung  to  her  left  breast,  ivory- 
white,  small,  and  firm. 

Dim  inarticulate  thoughts  passed  through 
the  mind  of  the  Oread  —  for  an  Oread  the 
Hill-Wind  had  been,  long,  long  ago,  beyond 
many  lovely  transformations  —  as  she  lay 
dreaming  by  the  mountain-pool.  Down  what 
remote  avenues  of  life  fared  her  pilgrim  eyes, 
seeking  ancestral  goals ;  from  what  imme- 
morial past  arose,  like  flying  shadows  at 
dawn,  recollections  of  the  fires  of  sunrise 
kindling  along  the  mountain-summits,  of  the 
flames  of  sunset  burning  slowly  upward  from 
the  beech-forests  to  the  extreme  pines,  sombre 
torches  erelong  against  the  remotest  snows; 
vague  remembrances  of  bygone  pageants  of 
day  and  night,  of  the  voicing  of  old-world 
winds  and  the  surpassing  wonder  of  the  inter- 
change and  outgrowth  of  the  seasons,  from 
the  Spring  Chant  of  the  Equinox  to  the  dirge 
Euroclydon.     Ever  and  again  drifted  through 

427 


William  Sharp 

her  mind  fleeting  phantoms  of  life  still  nearer 
to  herself:  white  figures,  seen  in  vanishing 
glimpses  of  unpondered,  all-unconscious 
reverie  —  figures  which  slipt  from  tree  to  tree 
in  the  high  hill-groves,  or  leaped  before  the 
wind,  with  flying  banners  of  sunlit  hair,  or 
stooped  to  drink  from  the  mountain-pools 
which  the  deer  forsook  not  at  their  approach. 
Who,  what,  was  this  white  shape,  upon  whose 
milky  skin  the  ruddy  light  shone,  as  he  stood 
on  a  high  ledge  at  sundown  and  looked  medi- 
tatively upon  the  twilit  valleys  and  gloomsome 
underworld  far  below?  Whose  were  these 
unremembered  yet  familiar  sisters,  flowerlike 
in  their  naked  beauty,  gathering  moonflowers 
for  garlands,  while  their  straying  feet  amid 
the  dew  made  a  silver  shimmer  as  of  gossa- 
mer-webs by  the  waterfalls?  Who  was  the 
lovely  vision,  so  like  that  mirrored  in  the  tarn 
before  her,  who,  stooping  in  the  evergreen- 
glade  to  drink  the  moonshine-dew,  suddenly 
lifted  her  head,  listened  intently,  and  smiled 
with  such  wild  shy  joy? 

What  meant  those  vague  half-glimpses, 
those  haunting  illusive  reminiscences  of  a  past 
that  was  yet  unrememberable  ? 

Troubled,  though  she  knew  it  not,  uncon- 
sciously perplexed,  vaguely  yearning  with  that 
nostalgia   for  her  ancestral   kind  which  had 

428 


The  Hill- Wind 

been  born  afresh  and  deeply  by  the  contempla- 
tion of  her  second  self  in  the  mountain  pool, 
the  Hill-Wind  slowly  rose,  stretched  her 
white  arms,  with  her  hands  spraying  out  her 
golden  hair,  and  gazed  longingly  into  the  blue 
haze  beyond. 

Suddenly  she  started,  at  the  irruption  of  an 
unfamiliar  sound  that  was  as  it  were  caught 
up  by  the  wind  and  flung  from  corrie  to  corrie. 
It  was  not  like  the  fall  of  a  boulder,  and  it 
sounded  strangely  near.  Stooping,  she 
plucked  a  sprig  of  gale:  then,  idly  twisting  it 
to  and  fro,  walked  slowly  to  where  a  moun- 
tain-ash, ablaze  with  scarlet  berries,  leaned 
forward  from  a  high  heathery  bank  overlook- 
ing a  wide  hollow  in  the  moors.  A  great 
dragon-fly  spun  past  her  like  an  elf's  javelin. 
The  small  yellow-brown  bees  circled  round 
and  brushed  against  her  hair,  excited  by  this 
new  and  strange  flower  that  moved  about  like 
the  hill-sheep  or  the  red  deer.  As  she  stood 
under  the  shadow  of  the  rowan  and  leaned 
against  its  gnarled  trunk,  two  small  blue  but- 
terflies wavered  up  from  the  heather  and 
danced  fantastically  over  the  sun-sprent  gold 
above  her  brow.  She  laughed,  but  frowned 
as  a  swift  swept  past  and  snapt  up  one  of  the 
azure  dancers.  With  a  quick  gesture  she 
broke  off  a  branch  of  the  rowan,  but  by  this 

429 


William  Sharp 

time  the  other  little  blue  butterfly  had  wavered 
off  into  the  sunlight. 

Holding  the  branch  downward  she  smiled 
as  she  saw  the  whiteness  of  her  limbs  beneath 
the  tremulous  arrowy  leaves  and  the  thick 
clusters  of  scarlet  and  vermilion  berries. 
Whenever  the  gnats,  whirling  in  aerial  maze, 
came  too  near,  she  raised  the  rowan  branch 
and  slowly  waved  them  back.  Suddenly  .  .  . 
her  arm  stiffened,  and  she  stood  motionless, 
rigid,  intent.  It  was  the  Voice  of  the  Sea,  the 
dull,  obscure,  summoning  voice  that  whispered 
to  the  ancient  Gods,  and  called  and  calls  to  all 
Powers  and  Dominions  that  have  been  and 
are ;  the  same  that  is  in  the  ears  of  Man  as  an 
echo;  and  in  the  House  of  the  Soul  as  a  ru- 
mour of  a  coming  hour. 

Motionless  herself,  her  eyes  travelled 
through  the  long  haze-blue  vistas  of  the  hills. 
The  scythe-swift  Shadow  of  a  mighty  pinion 
moved  from  slope  to  slope.  The  Hill-Wind 
sighed.  Then,  smiling  under  some  new  im- 
pulse of  joy,  she  leaped  forward,  but  only  in- 
dolently to  throw  herself  upon  a  flood  of  sun- 
light streaming  by. 

The  wide  reach  of  harebell-waters,  beyond 
where  the  heather  broke  down  to  the  sea, 
shimmered  suddenly  into  a  dazzle  of  gold 
flame.     A  few  waves  swung  aloft  their  coro- 

43^ 


The  Hill-Wind 

nals  of  foam,  laughing  joyously  to  the  chant 
of  their  sweet  sea-tune.  They  had  gained  a 
sister:  the  Sea-wind,  a  bride:  and  Ocean  a 
breath,  a  suspiration,  an  ended  sigh. 


431 


Love  in  A  Mist 


LOVE  IN  A  MIST 

In  a  green  hollow  in  the  woodlands,  Love,  a 
mere  child,  with  sunny  golden  curls  and  large 
blue  eyes,  stood  whimpering.  A  round  tear 
had  fallen  on  his  breast  and  trickled  slowly 
down  his  white  skin,  till  it  lay  like  a  dewdrop 
on  his  thigh :  another  was  in  pursuit,  but  had 
reached  no  further  than  a  dimple  in  the 
chubby  cheek,  into  which  it  had  heedlessly 
rolled  and  could  not  get  out  again.  Beside 
Love  was  a  thicket  of  white  wild  roses,  so 
innumerable  that  they  seemed  like  a  cloud  of 
butterflies  alit  on  a  hedge  for  a  moment  and 
about  to  take  wing  —  so  white  that  the  little 
wanderer  looked  as  though  he  were  made  of 
rose-stained  ivory.  Here  was  the  cause  of 
the  boy's  whimpering.  A  thorn-point  had 
slightly  scratched  his  right  arm,  barely  tearing 
the  skin  but  puncturing  it  sufficiently  to  let 
a  tiny  drop  of  blood,  like  a  baby  rowan-berry, 
slowly  well  forth. 

Love  looked  long  and  earnestly  at  the 
wound.  Then  he  whimpered,  but  stopped  to 
smile  at  a  squirrel  who  pretended  to  be  exam- 
ining the  state  of  its  tail,  but  was  really  watch- 
ing him.     When  the  little  drop  of  blood  would 

435 


William  Sharp 

neither  roll  away  nor  go  back,  Love  grew 
angry,  and  began  to  cry. 

"  Ah,  I  am  so  weak,"  he  sighed ;  "  perhaps  I 
shall  die!  Ah,  wretched  little  soul  that  I  am, 
to  lie  here  in  this  horrible  thorny  wood. 
No  —  no  —  I  will  drag  myself  out  into  the 
sunshine,  and  die  there.  Perhaps  —  p'raps  — 
(sniffle)  — 'aps  —  (sniffle)  —  a  kind  lark  will  " 
— (sniffle). 

Sobbing  bitterly,  Love  crept  through  a 
beech-hedge,  and  so  into  the  open  sunlit 
meadow  beyond.  He  was  so  unhappy  that  he 
quite  forgot  to  knock  off  from  a  grey  thistle 
a  huge  snail,  although  its  shell  shone  tempt- 
ingly many-hued;  and  even  a  cricket  that 
jumped  on  to  his  foot  and  then  off  again 
hardly  brought  to  his  face  a  wan  smile. 

But  after  sitting  awhile  by  a  heavy  bur- 
dock, and  sobbing  at  gradually  lengthening 
intervals,  he  stopped  abruptly.  Out  of  a  garth 
of  red  clover  and  white  campions  he  saw  two 
round  black  eyes  staring  at  him  with  such 
unmitigated  astonishment  that  he  could  do 
nothing  else  but  stare  back  with  equal  rigidity 
and  silence. 

"  Why,  it  is  only  a  brown  hare,"  exclaimed 
Love  below  his  breath.  "  How  it  smiles !  "  — 
and  therewith  he  broke  into  so  hearty  a  laugh 
that  the  hare  sprang  round  as  if  on  a  pivot, 

436- 


Love  in  a  Mist 

and  went  leaping  away  through  the  meadow. 
Beyond  the  puffed  campions  were  a  cluster  of 
tall  ox-eye  daisies,  and  they  moved  so  tempt- 
ingly towards  him  in  the  breeze  that  Love  ran 
as  it  were  to  meet  them. 

No  sooner,  however,  was  he  in  their  midst 
than  he  pluckt  them  one  by  one,  and  then  ran 
back  with  them  towards  the  wood,  in  whose 
cool  shadow,  he  thought,  it  would  be  delight- 
ful to  weave  of  them  a  starry  wreath. 

But  by  the  time  the  wreath  was  woven, 
Love  was  both  thirsty  and  aweary  of  being 
still.  So,  having  sipped  the  dew  from  a  bed 
of  green  mosses  among  the  surface-roots  of 
a  vast  oak,  he  ran  into  a  little  wilderness  of 
wild  hyacinths,  and  danced  therein  with  mad- 
dest glee,  while  the  sunlight  splashed  upon 
him  through  the  dappling  shadows  of  the  oak 
boughs. 

A  fat  bumble-bee  and  two  white  butterflies 
joined  him  for  a  time,  but  at  last  the  bee  grew 
hot  and  breathless,  and  the  butterflies  were 
frightened  by  his  joyous  laughter  and  the 
clapping  of  his  little  hands.  Scarce,  however, 
was  he  left  alone  once  more  than  he  descried 
a  young  fawn  among  the  fern.  It  took  him 
but  a  moment  to  snatch  his  wreath  of  ox-eye 
daisies  and  but  another  to  spring  to  the  side 
of  the   startled   fawn  and  place  the   wreath 

437 


William  Sharp 

round  its  neck.  The  great  brown  eyes  looked 
fearfully  at  Love,  who,  little  rascal,  pretended 
to  be  caressing  when  he  was  really  making 
ready  for  a  leap.  In  a  second  he  was  on  the 
fawn's  back  —  but,  ah !  poor  Love,  he  had  not 
calculated  for  such  a  flight.  Away  sped  the 
fawn,  athwart  the  glade,  through  the  hollow, 
and  out  across  the  meadow  towards  the  sand- 
dune.  Gradually  Love's  hold  became  more 
and  more  insecure,  and  at  last  off  he  came 
right  into  a  mass  of  yellow  irises  and  a  tad- 
pole-haunted little  pool. 

Love  might  have  stopped  to  cry,  or  at  least 
to  chase  the  tadpoles,  but  he  happened  to  see 
a  sea-gull  flying  low  beyond  him  across  the 
dunes.  With  a  shout  he  pursued  it,  forgetful 
alike  of  the  fawn  and  his  lost  wreath. 

But  when  he  came  to  the  break  in  the 
dunes  he  could  not  see  the  ocean  because  of  the 
haze  that  lay  upon  it,  and  in  which  the  sea- 
gull was  soon  lost  to  sight.  But  at  least  the 
sands  were  there.  For  a  time  he  wandered 
disconsolately  along  the  shore.  Then,  when 
he  saw  the  tide  slowly  advancing,  he  frowned. 
"  Ha !  ha !  "  he  laughed,  "  I  shall  build  a  castle 
of  sand,  and  then  the  sea  will  not  know  what 
to  do,  and  the  white  gull  will  come  back 
again." 

But  having  built  his  sand-castle,  Love  was 

438 


Love  in  a  Mist 

so  weary  that  he  curled  himself  up  behind  the 
shallow  barrier,  and,  having  wearily  but  lov- 
ingly placed  beside  him  three  pink  half -shells, 
a  pearly  willie-winkie,  a  piece  of  wave-worn 
chalk,  and  a  hermit-crab  (which  soon  crawled 
away),  he  was  speedily  asleep. 

Before  long  the  ripple  of  the  water  against 
the  very  frontier  of  his  small  domain  aroused 
the  brine-bred  things  that  live  by  the  sea- 
marge.  A  few  cockles  gaped  thirstily,  and 
one  or  two  whistle-fish  sent  their  jets  of  water 
up  into  the  air  and  then  protruded  their  shelly 
snouts  as  if  to  scan  the  tardy  advance  of  the 
tide.  The  sand-lice  bestirred  themselves, 
creeping,  leaping,  confusedly  eager  not  to  be 
overtaken  by  that  rapid  ooze  which  would 
quicksand  them  in  a  moment. 

Then  a  piece  of  dulse  was  washed  right  on 
to  the  castle-wall.  On  the  salt-smelling  wrack 
was  a  crab,  and  this  startled  voyager  saw  dry 
land  and  mayhap  new  food  to  sample  in  the 
white  foot  of  Love  that  lay  temptingly  near. 
Just  then  a  flying  shrimp,  a  mad  aeronaut,  a 
reckless  enthusiast  among  its  kind,  took  the 
fortress  at  a  leap  and  alighted  on  Love's  white 
and  crinkled  belly.  The  boy's  body  instinct- 
ively shivered.  Still,  he  might  not  have 
awaked,  had  not  the  crab  at  that  moment  joy- 
ously  gripped,   as   succulent   prey,   his   little 

439 


William  Sharp 

toe,  curled  as  it  was  like  a  small  and  dainty 
mollusc. 

Love  sat  up,  and  with  indignant  eyes  re- 
monstrated with  the  crab,  who  had  at  once 
given  way  and  retreated  with  haphazard  as- 
siduity to  the  shelter  of  a  convenient  pebble 
partially  embedded  in  the  sand. 

As  for  the  shrimp,  it  had  come  and  gone 
like  the  very  ghost  of  a  tickle,  like  the  dream- 
fly  of  sleepland. 

But  suddenly  Love  heard  a  voice,  a  low 
whisper,  coming  he  knew  not  whence,  and  yet 
so  strangely  familiar.  Was  it  borne  upon  the 
white  lips  of  the  tide,  or  did  it  come  from 
the  curving  billow  that  swept  shoreward,  or 
from  the  deep  beyond  ?  Who  can  guess  what 
the  voice  said,  since  Love  himself  knew  not 
the  sweet  strange  word,  but  was  comforted: 
knowing  only  that  he  was  to  return  to  the 
wood  again.  Fragments  he  caught,  though 
little  comprehensible :  "  My  child,  my  little 
wandering  Love,  who  art  born  daily,  and  art 
ever  young/'  and  then  the  words  of  which  he 
knew  nothing,  or  but  vaguely  apprehended. 

Yet  ever  petulant,  Love  would  rather  have 
stayed  by  the  sea,  even  to  the  undoing  of  his 
castle-walls,  already  toppling  with  the  upward 
reaching  damp  of  the  stealthy  underooze,  had 
he  not  descried  a  white  wild-goat  standing  on 

44° 


Love  in  a  Mist 

the  dune  and  looking  at  him  with  mild  eyes 
like  sunlit  sardonyx.  With  a  glad  cry  he  ran 
towards  the  goat,  who  made  no  play  of 
caprice  but  seemed  to  invite,  for  all  the 
strangeness  of  the  essay,  this  young  rider  with 
the  child's  smile  and  the  emperor's  eyes. 

The  yellow-hammers  and  ousels,  the  whin- 
chats  and  sea-larks  sent  abroad  long  thrilling 
notes  in  their  excitement,  as  the  white  goat, 
with  Love  laughingly  astride,  raced  across  the 
dunes  and  over  the  meadows  towards  the 
wood.  But  as  the  too-impulsive  steed  took  a 
fallen  oak  at  a  bound,  its  feet  caught  in  the 
loose  bark,  and  poor  Love  was  shot  forward 
into  a  hollow  of  green  moss.  Alas,  in  the 
comet-like  passage  thither,  a  nettle  slightly 
stung  the  sole  of  one  foot ;  so  that  the  moment 
he  had  recovered  from  his  somersault  he 
snatched  a  broken  oak-branch,  and  turned  to 
chastise  the  too  heedless  goat.  But,  to  his  as- 
tonishment, no  goat  was  to  be  seen.  It  had 
disappeared  as  though  it  were  a  blossom 
blown  by  the  wind. 

Rubbing  his  eyes,  Love  looked  again  and 
again.  No  goat;  no  sound,  even,  save  the 
ruffling  of  the  low  wind  among  the  lofty 
domes  of  the  forest,  the  tap-tapping  of  a 
woodpecker,  the  shrill  cry  of  a  jay  and  indis- 
criminate  warbling   undertone    of   a   myriad 

441 


William  Sharp 

birds,  with,  below  all,  the  chirp  of  the  grass- 
hopper and  the  drone  of  the  small  wood-wasp 
and  the  foraging  bee. 

Beyond  the  last  copse  the  sun  was  slowly 
moving  in  a  whirl  of  golden  fire. 

Hark!  what  was  that?  Love  started,  and 
then  slipped  cautiously  from  tree  to  tree,  find- 
ing his  way  into  the  woodland  like  a  gliding 
sunray.  He  heard  voices,  and  a  snatch  of  a 
song : — 

"  The  wild  bird  called  to  me  '  Follow ! ' 
The  nightingale  whispered  '  Stay ! ' 
When  lost  in  the  hawthorn-hollow 
We" 

The  next  moment  he  descried  a  lovely  girl 
lying  on  the  moss  below  an  oak,  with  her  face 
towards  the  setting  sun,  whose  warm  flood 
soaked  through  the  wide  green  flame  of  the 
irra'diated  leaves.  A  little  way  beyond  her 
was  a  young  man,  no  other  than  the  singer, 
standing  by  an  easel,  and  putting  the  last 
touches  to  the  canvas  upon  which  he  was  at 
work. 

Love  was  curious.  He  had  never  seen  a 
picture,  and,  in  fact,  he  thought  the  man 
was  probably  spreading  out  something  to  eat. 
He,  child  though  he  was,  was  so  fearless,  that 
no  one  could  have  daunted  him,  and  so  na- 

442 


Love  in  a  Mist 

tively  royal,  that  no  idea  even  of  his  being 
gainsaid  troubled  his  brain. 

With  great  interest  he  stole  alongside  the 
painter.  He  looked  at  the  canvas  dubiously; 
sniffed  it;  and  then  turned  away  with  a  ges- 
ture of  disapproval.  He  liked  the  look  of 
the  pigments  on  a  palette  that  lay  on  the 
ground,  and  thought  that  the  man  was  per- 
haps no  other  than  he  who  painted  the  king- 
cups and  violets  and  the  bells  of  the  hya- 
cinths. But  the  smell  made  him  sick,  and  so 
he  stole  towards  the  girl  to  see  what  she  was 
doing. 

It  vaguely  puzzled  him  that  neither  the  man 
nor  the  girl  seemed  to  be  aware  of  his  pres- 
ence; yet,  as  Love  never  troubled  to  think, 
the  bewilderment  was  but  a  shadow  of  a 
passing  cloud.  The  girl  was  beautiful.  He 
loved  better  to  look  at  her  than  at  any  other 
flower  of  the  forest.  Even  the  blue  corn- 
flower, even  the  hedge-speedwell,  had  not  so 
exquisite  a  blue  as  the  dream-wrought  eyes 
into  whose  unconscious  depths  he  looked  long, 
and  saw  at  last  his  own  image,  clear  as  in 
deep  water.  "  I  wish  she  would  sing,"  said 
Love  to  himself;  "that  man  yonder  is  no 
better  than  a  huge  bumble-bee."  With  a  mis- 
chievous glance  he  pluckt  a  tall  wind-flower, 
and  gently  tickled  her  with  it. 

443 


William  Sharp 

A  faint  smile,  a  delicate  wave  of  colour, 
came  into  her  face.  "Ah,  Love!  Love!"  she 
whispered  below  her  breath. 

How  sweet  the  words  were!  With  a 
happy  sigh  Love  cuddled  up  close  to  the 
beautiful  girl,  and,  tired  and  drowsy,  would 
soon  have  fallen  asleep,  had  not  the  heaving 
of  her  bosom  disturbed  him. 

"  Ah,  what  a  tiresome  world  it  is,"  ex- 
claimed Love  fretfully,  as  he  crawled  indo- 
lently away,  and  then  rested  again  among 
some  blue  flowers.  There  he  sat  for  some 
time,  sulkily  tying  a  periwinkle  round  each 
toe.  Suddenly,  with  a  cry  of  joy,  he  descried 
among  the  flowers  his  lost  bow  and  sheaf  of 
arrows.  With  a  merry  laugh  he  reached  for 
them,  and  in  mere  wantonness  began  to  fray 
the  petals  with  an  arrow,  and  to  tangle  them 
into  an  intricate  net  of  blue  blossom  and 
green  fibre. 

But  in  the  midst  of  his  glee  came  retribu- 
tion. He  heard  a  rustling  sound,  a  quick  ex- 
clamation, and  the  next  moment  an  easel  fell 
right  atop  of  him,  and,  but  for  his  soft,  mossy 
carpet,  might  have  flattened  him,  for  all  his 
white  plumpness.  True,  the  easel  was  picked 
up  again  immediately,  but  Love  felt  the  in- 
sult as  well  as  the  blow.  With  a  yell  of 
anger,  that  very  nearly  startled  a  neighbour- 

444 


Love  in  a  Mist 

ing  caterpillar,  he  fitted  an  arrow  to  his 
bow,  and  shot  it  straight  at  the  clumsy  owner 
of  the  easel.  "Aha,"  he  thought,  "I  have 
paid  you  back,  you  see,"  for  he  saw  the  young 
man  stop,  grow  pale,  hesitate,  and  then  sud- 
denly fall  on  his  knees.  "  Ah !  he  is  wounded 
to  death,"  and  Love's  tender  heart  got  the 
better  of  his  resentment,  and  he  would  fain 
have  recalled  that  deadly  arrow.  But  to  his 
astonishment  the  youth  seemed  more  eager  to 
seize  and  kiss  the  girl's  hand  than  to  save  his 
life,  if  that  were  still  possible ! 

As  for  the  girl,  the  sunset  was  upon  her 
face  as  a  flame.  She  tried  to  rise,  and  in 
doing  so  trampled  upon  one  of  Love's  toes. 
Poor  little  Love  danced  about  furiously  on 
one  foot,  holding  his  wounded  toe  with  one 
hand;  but  alas!  again  his  hasty  anger  over- 
came him,  and,  before  he  realised  what  he  had 
done,  he  shot  another  arrow,  this  time  straight 
at  the  heart  of  the  lovely  girl. 

Alas,  how  it  weakened  her  at  once !  In  the 
agony  of  death,  no  doubt,  she  fell  forward 
into  the  man's  arms  and  laid  her  head  upon 
his  breast. 

But  speedily  Love  saw  that  they  were  not 
dead  or  even  dying,  but  merely  kissing  and 
fondling  each  other,  and  this  too  in  the  most 
insensate  fashion. 

445 


William  Sharp 

"  Oh,  how  funny !  how  funny !  "  laughed 
Love,  and  rolled  about  in  an  ecstasy  among 
the  blue  flowers,  making  the  tangle  worse 
than  ever. 

(Twilight.) 
She.  Darling  —  darling  —  let  me  go  now 

—  let  me  go.     It  will  soon  be  dark. 
He.  Sweetheart,  wait! 

She.  Hush!     What  is  that? 

(A  low  tiny  snore  comes  from  amidst  the 
blue  flowers.) 

He.  Oh,  it  is  only  a  bettle  rubbing  its 
shards,  or  a  mole  burrowing  through  the 
grass. 

She.  Ah,  look;  we  are  trampling  under 
foot  such  beautiful  flowers.  These  must  be 
our  flowers,  dear,  must  they  not?  What  are 
they? 

He.  I    don't   know  —  ah,   yes,   to   be   sure 

—  they  must  be  the  flower  called  "  Love  in  a 
Mist." 

She  (dreamily).  I  wonder  if  we  could  see 
Love  himself  if  we  searched  below  all  this 
blue  tangle? 

.  .  .  She  leans  down,  and  peers  through 
the  blue  veil  of  the  flowers.  Love  wakes 
with  the  fragrance  of  her  warm  breath  play- 
ing upon  his  cheek,  but  does  not  stir,  for  he  is 

446 


Love  in  a  Mist 

remorseful  at  having  shot  an  arrow  at  so 
lovely  a  thing.  With  loving  caressing  touch 
he  gently  lays  a  dew-drop  into  each  blue 
flower  of  her  eyes.  .  .  . 

She  {whispering  as  she  rises).  How  beau- 
tiful, how  wonderful  it  all  is! 

He.  Ah,  darling,  tears  in  those  beautiful 
eyes!    Come,  let  me  kiss  them  away. 

Love  {below  his  breath).  Greedy  wretch 
—  I  gave  them  to  her!  Ah,  she  shall  have 
many  more,  and  you,  mayhap,  none ! 

Hand  in  hand,  the  lovers  go  away,  and, 
well  content,  Love  turns  over  on  his  side  and 
is  soon  sound  asleep.  The  moon  rises,  full 
and  golden  yellow.  From  a  beech-covert  a 
nightingale  sings  with  intermittent  snatches 
of  joy.  Above  the  blue  flowers  two  white 
night-moths  flicker  in  a  slow  fantastic  way- 
ward dance.  A  glowworm,  hanging  on  a 
lock  of  Love's  curly  hair,  shines  as  though  it 
were  the  child  of  a  moonbeam  and  a  flower. 

But  at  last  the  glowworm,  crawling  from 
its  high  place  and  adown  the  white  sweetness 
of  Love's  face,  tickled  his  small  nose,  and 
caused  him  to  sit  up,  startled,  and  wide 
awake.  "  What  —  who  ?  "  muttered  Love 
confusedly. 

The  Nightjar. 

Quir-rr-rr-o !  .  .  .  Quir-rr-rr-o ! 

447 


William  Sharp 

The  Nightingale. 
Kew-u-ee,  kweel   Kwee-kwee-tchug !  tchug! 
tchug !  kwee-kwilloh ! 

A  Restless  Magpie  (mockingly) . 
Kwilloh  .  .  .  kwollow,       ohee       kwollow- 
kwan ! 

Echo. 
Follow  .  .  .  oh,  follow  them! 

Further  Echo. 
Follow!  .  .  .  Fol  .  .  .  low! 
Love  (rising). 
I  come,  I  come!  who  calls? 

Distant  Echo  (faintly). 
Fol  .  .  .  low. 


44* 


The  Sister  of  Compassion 


THE  SISTER  OF  COMPASSION 

(To  Mrs.  Mona  Caird) 
The  June  sunshine  moved  upon  me  like  a 
flood.  In  my  sleep,  or  drowsy  reverie,  as  I 
lay  in  the  hollow  of  the  tamarisk-fringed 
dunes  which  formed  the  frontier  between  the 
forest  and  the  sea,  I  could  hear  the  two  most 
thrilling  voices  of  Nature  —  the  murmur  of  a 
slow  wind  meshed  among  green  branches,  and 
the  confused  whispered  tumult  of  great  wa- 
ters. 

The  unwontedly  sustained  crying  of  a  gull 
caused  me  to  stir,  turn,  and  lean  on  my  el- 
bows, with  my  face  against  the  near  waving 
of  the  birches  which  ran  out  from  the  wood- 
land. A  score  of  yards  to  the  right,  a  boul- 
der rose  from  a  garth  of  fern.  Its  forehead 
was  white  with  bleached  sea-moss,  its  sides 
golden  with  lichen ;  and  like  a  white  magnolia- 
bloom  upon  it  was  a  snowy  fulmar,  crouch- 
ing in  pain.  I  saw  that  the  poor  bird  had 
been  wounded,  and  as  it  attempted  to  rise,  at 
the  moment  I  stirred,  I  could  see  that  it  had 
been  shot,  for  the  left  wing  was  helplessly 
adroop. 

If  the  fulmar  would  let  me  approach,  I  be- 

451 


William  Sharp 

lieved  I  could  ease  its  agony;  but,  alas,  man 
is  the  apparition  of  Death  to  his  weaker  com- 
rades in  the  common  heritage  of  life.  By  his 
own  madness  of  wrong  and  cruelty  he  has 
forfeited  that  elder  brotherhood  which  should 
be  his  pride  as  it  is  natively  his  right. 

How,  indeed,  as  it  was  through  the  wanton 
act  of  a  man  that  the  bird  had  been  given  over 
to  prolonged  agony  and  sure  death,  could  it 
have  been  otherwise;  yet  it  was  with  deep 
disappointment  that,  after  I  had  been  allowed 
to  approach  within  a  few  yards'  distance,  the 
fulmar  suddenly  hurled  itself  into  the  fern. 
There,  like  a  wounded  duck  among  sedge  and 
bulrush,  it  floundered  heavily  in  a  wild  and 
despairing  panic. 

From  the  sky,  a  living  blue,  came  the  songs 
of  unseen  larks:  from  the  woodland,  the  coo- 
ing of  cushats,  the  sweet  chitter  of  small 
birds,  the  blithe  notes  of  throstle  and  mavis: 
from  the  sea,  the  chime  of  green  wavelets 
running  up  foamy  channels  or  leaping  along 
among  the  shallows,  and,  beyond,  that  deep 
mysterious  rhythm  that  contains  the  pulse  of 
Time.  Peace  brooded  upon  sky,  and  sea,  and 
land ;  but,  like  a  laugh  from  hell  heard  among 
the  alleys  of  paradise,  the  screaming  of  the 
wounded  gull  turned  the  sweet  savour  of  life 
into  bitterness. 

45^ 


The  Sister  of  Compassion 

It  was  at  this  moment  I  became  aware  of  a 
rumour  in  the  forest.  From  beech  and  chest- 
nut, from  lime  and  tall  elm,  from  sycamore 
and  hazel,  came  a  ripple  of  sweet  notes,  a  rus- 
tle of  wings.  The  beech-mast  crackled  with 
the  scurrying  of  rabbits.  Young  foxes, 
wood-hares,  squirrels,  stirred  through  the 
bracken  round  the  great-rooted  oaks.  Across 
the  dry  water-course  the  shrew-mice  pattered. 

It  was  not  consternation,  for  there  were  no 
startled  cries,  no  reckless  flight  The  jay 
screamed  no  warning;  the  single  snapping 
bark  of  the  fox  was  unheard. 

Suddenly  I  stood  as  though  entranced.  I 
saw  a  woman,  clothed  in  white,  moving 
through  the  sun-splashed  woodland.  So  ra- 
diant was  the  warm- white  of  her  robe,  that 
the  leaf  and  branch-shadows,  trailing  on  the 
golden  light  that  overlay  the  moss,  seemed 
pale  blue. 

Through  the  branches  over  her  head  a 
myriad  company  of  birds  hovered,  from  the 
wandering  cuckoo  to  the  sky  ringdove,  from 
the  missel-thrush  to  the  wren.  I  saw  the  fal- 
con flying  harmlessly  among  the  chaffinches, 
and  a  wind-hover  moving  unheeded  among 
the  crowd  of  fluttering  sparrows. 

Around,  and  behind  her,  were  animals  of 
all  kinds.     By  her  side,  wild  fawns,  stretching 

453 


William  Sharp 

their  long  necks  towards  her,  blessed  her  with 
the  unconscious  benediction  of  their  eyes. 
One  small  fawn  was  dappled  red  as  with 
autumnal  leaves,  or  as  with  blood.  It 
moved  by  her  right,  and  seemed  to  live  only 
by  the  love  and  pity  wherewith  she  sustained 
it,  by  healing  hand  or  caressing  touch.  In 
her  breast  was  a  spot  of  dull  red.  I  thought 
it  was  blood,  but  it  was  only  a  wounded  robin 
which  she  had  rescued  from  the  snare  of  the 
bird-trapper.  It  slept  against  the  warmth  of 
her  bosom:  its  tiny  pulse  of  life  lifting  the 
small  ruddy  breast  in  rhythm  with  the  larger 
rise  and  fall. 

The  woman  was  young,  in  the  beautiful 
youth  of  those  who  are  not  of  this  world. 
On  her  face,  fair  with  charity,  sweet  with  lov- 
ing kindness,  there  was  the  trouble  of  some- 
thing unfulfilled.  Her  eyes,  which  mirrored 
the  passionate  tenderness  of  her  heart,  were 
intent  upon  somewhat  I  could  not  see:  some 
goal  within  the  sunlit  greenery,  beyond  the 
dim  vistas  of  mysty  light,  of  verdurous 
gloom ;  or,  perhaps,  upon  horizons  I  could  not 
discern. 

I  should  have  taken  her  for  a  vision,  a 
spirit,  but  that  I  saw  how  womanly  sweet  she 
was.  The  white  soul  within  her  was  known 
of  every  dumb  or  dwarfed  soul  among  those 

454     _ 


The  Sister  of  Compassion 

glad  bondagers  of  her  spell,  from  the  falcon 
to  the  timid  rabbits  which  leaped  before  her 
way  like  living  surf.  Moreover,  she  could 
see  and  hear  what  mortal  eyes  and  ears  could ; 
for  suddenly  she  caught  sight  of  the  dying 
gull.  Swift  as  a  wave  she  was  beside  it. 
With  deft  hands  she  eased  the  broken  wing: 
with  gentle  touch  she  stilled  the  fierce  pulsa- 
tion. The  bird  looked  upon  her  as  he  might 
have  scanned  a  sunlit  sea.  A  new  light  came 
into  his  eyes:  a  thrill  shook  his  now  elastic 
body;  and  though  death  darkened  his  life, 
the  spirit  which  had  animated  him  was  set 
free,  and  was  borne  seaward  by  the  wind. 

As  she  rose,  for  she  had  kneeled  to  lay  the 
white  body  where  the  swift  chemistry  of  air 
and  light  would  work  the  wise  corruption  of 
the  lifeless  into  new  life,  I  recognised  the 
face. 

She  was  one  whom  I  had  loved  and  hon- 
oured, whom  I  love  and  honour:  a  woman  so 
wrought  by  the  tragic  pain  of  the  weak  and 
helpless,  that,  like  one  whom  she  followed 
blindly  from  afar,  she  daily  laid  down  her 
life  in  order  that  she  might  be  as  balm  here, 
and  here  might  save,  and  at  all  times  and  in 
all  places  be  a  messenger  of  that  tardy  re- 
demption which  man  must  make  in  spirit  and 
deed  for  the  incalculable  wrong  which  he  has 

455 


William  Sharp 

done  to  that  sacred  thing  he  most  values 
Life. 


I  know  not  now  what  that  sea  was,  where 
that  forest  is.  But  I  dream,  O  Sister  of 
Compassion,  what  was  the  mysterious  voice 
of  the  one  whispered  in  your  ears,  what  the 
confused  murmur  of  the  other  echoed  in 
your  heart. 

I  know  not,  but  I  dream;  and  I  think  the 
forest  is  that  dark  wood  of  human  life,  that 
silva  oscura  of  living  death  or  dying  life 
which  Dante  saw  with  deep  awe :  and  the  sea, 
that  ocean  of  mystery  which  involves  us  with 
a  regenerating  air,  with  a  life  that  is  not  our 
own,  with  horizons  of  promise,  and  dim  per- 
spectives of  inalienable  hope. 

And  you,  dear  friend,  are  you  one  whom  I 
and  others  have  known  and  loved;  or  had  I 
but  a  vision  of  the  elect  of  the  Following 
Love?  Where  is  the  goal  you  hungered  for 
with  those  intent  eyes,  O  Sister  of  Compas- 
sion: what  the  end,  and  whither  the  way? 


456 


The  Merchant  of  Dreams 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  DREAMS 
(A  Fragment) 

There  is  a  squalid  little  street,  in  the  swarm- 
ing region  of  the  Seven  Dials,  called  World's 
End.  I  came  upon  it  by  mere  hazard,  one  wet 
gloomy  afternoon  in  midwinter,  while  on  the 
quest  of  a  friend,  who,  after  many  vicissi- 
tudes, had  sunk  in  his  last  dissolute  days  to 
the  position  of  a  "  super "  at  Drury  Lane 
Theatre.  Traces  of  him  were  not  wholly  in- 
discoverable  :  a  confused  trail,  lost  among  dis- 
reputable public-houses.  It  was  at  one  of 
those,  the  Whistling  Snipe,  that  a  man,  whose 
accent  belied  the  evidence  of  his  sordid  ap- 
pearance, followed  me  to  the  door:  and,  for 
a  small  sum,  volunteered  to  put  me  on  the 
track  of  him  whom  I  sought. 

At  first  I  thought  the  bargain  was  a  one- 
sided one;  for,  having  pocketed  the  money, 
my  would-be  informant  told  me  frankly  that 
he  could  not  be  explicit.  All  he  could  do  was 
to  put  me  on  the  track,  if  any  track  were  now 
discoverable  at  all. 

"  No,  sir,"  he  reiterated,  "  I  don't  myself 
know  where  he  is.     He  may  be  dead,  or  dy- 

459 


William  Sharp 

ing.  He's  not  a  '  super '  now.  I  haven't 
seen  him  in  the  Lane  for  weeks.  But  if  any 
one  can  help  you,  it  will  be  old  Father  Am- 
brose." 

"  Father  Ambrose  ? "  I  asked  interroga- 
tively :  "  is  he  a  priest  ? 

"  Oh,  I  forgot.  Of  course  you  don't  know. 
That's  what  I'm  here  for  just  now.  No,  he's 
not  a  priest.  No  one  knows  anything  about 
him:  who  he  is,  where  he  comes  from,  what 
he  does.  He  must  have  a  little  o'  the  need- 
ful, for  I've  always  heard  his  rooms  are  clean 
and  well  looked  after:  not  that  I  know  him 
or  them,  never  having  crossed  the  doorway  o' 
the  White  Poppy." 

"The  White  Poppy?" 

"  That's  what  old  Ambrose,  Father  Am- 
brose, calls  the  little  place  he  has:  a  bit  of  a 
bookshop,  with  clean  windows,  and  no  books 
behind  'em:  got  some  inside.  I  know  a  man 
who  knows  him,  and  says  the  old  philosopher 
(that's  what  they  call  him  in  the  Lane) 
doesn't  sell  more  than  a  book  in  a  week,  and, 
when  he  does,  it's  as  often  as  not  given  right 
off  just  because  asked  for." 

"And  will  he  know  where  James  Linton 
is?" 

"Yes,  if  anybody  does." 

"Why?" 

460 


The  Merchant  of  Dreams 

"  Because  Linton  used  to  go  there  often, 
after  he  *  pulled  up'." 

"Pulled  up?" 

"  After  he  threw  over  the  drink.  He'd 
got  consumption,  an'  wanted  to  die  decent." 

"  Well,  show  me  the  way,"  I  added :  and 
with  that  we  passed  into  a  maze  of  little 
squalid  streets,  lanes,  and  passages. 

It  was  in  one  of  these  that,  in  a  few  min- 
utes, I  read  the  legend  at  the  corner:  World's 
End.  Here  my  companion  left  me,  with  a 
parting  injunction  to  pass  a  score  of  houses, 
till  I  came  to  one,  set  back  somewhat  on  the 
right,  distinguished  by  a  board  swinging  from 
an  old  iron  bracket.  On  the  board  would  be 
visible  the  words  The  White  Poppy. 

"  You  can't  go  wrong,"  he  added :  *  every 
one  here  knows  the  Sign  of  the  White  Poppy." 

It  was  with  some  curiosity  that,  a  few  min- 
utes later,  I  stood  under  the  Sign  of  the 
White  Poppy.  The  signboard  swung  in  that 
dismal  air,  poignantly  significant.  What 
other,  there,  in  that  dread  locality,  could  have 
had  a  more  subtle  allure. 

White  Poppies!  There  was  magic  in  the 
words.  Forgetfulness,  rest,  quietude,  obliv- 
ion, every  sweet  and  longed-for  nepenthe,  lay 
hid  therein :  like  the  fragrance  in  an  unfolded 
rose. 

461 


William  Sharp 

The  first  thing  that  arrested  my  attention 
was  the  absence  of  books,  or  indeed  of  any- 
saleable  commodity,  from  the  blank  wooden 
space  beyond  the  window.  This  was  the 
more  surprising,  as  the  windows  were  clean 
and  well-kept,  as  clean,  at  any  rate,  as  was 
possible  in  that  haunt  of  fog  and  squalor. 

Every  here  and  there,  half  sheets  of  note- 
paper  were  affixed  to  the  window  by  red 
wafers.  Advertisements,  I  thought.  Out  of 
curiosity  to  know  more  of  "  Father  Ambrose  " 
and  his  avocations  —  for  obviously  his  voca- 
tion as  a  bookseller  was  only  nominal  —  I 
scrutinised  these  notices. 

It  was  to  be  an  hour  of  surprises.  Of  the 
ten  or  twelve  slips,  not  one  was  an  advertise- 
ment or  business  notice  of  any  kind.  Each 
was  some  fair  or  noble  thought:  without  pre- 
amble or  appendical  name  or  note:  self-con- 
tained. All  had  quotation-marks:  so,  doubt- 
less, were  excerpts  from  some  book  of  col- 
lected sayings.  This  I  surmised,  as  I  glanced 
from  one  to  the  other.  They  were  a  strange 
mixture.  Some  were  from  ancient  writers, 
some  from  modern:  one  or  two  from  con- 
temporary poets.  A  few  I  failed  to  recog- 
nise. But  I  remember  that  the  central  one 
was  that  noble  saying  of  Plato :  "  Honour 
the  Soul ;  for  according  as  a  man's  deeds  are, 

462^ 


The  Merchant  of  Dreams 

so  will  the  nature  of  his  soul  change  for  bet- 
ter or  for  worse."  Below  this  were  two,  one 
of  which  I  could  not  identify :  "  The  Beauty 
of  the  World  is  the  divine  Veil  between  that 
morning-shadow,  Humanity,  and  the  Sun- 
rise of  God."  Its  companion  I  knew  as  Ba- 
con's :  "  The  souls  of  the  living  are  the 
Beauty  of  the  World."  Another,  long  fa- 
miliar, was  from  the  Ajax  of  Euripides  — 

"All  human  things 
A  day  lays  low,  a  day  lifts  up  again: 
But  still  the  Gods  love  those  of  ordered  soul." 

No  lover  of  Amiel  could  fail  to  recognise 
a  sentiment  so  characteristic  of  the  author  of 
the  Journal  Intime  as  "  Like  the  rain  of  night, 
Reverie  restores  colour  and  force  to  thoughts 
which  have  been  blanched  and  wearied  by  the 
heat  of  the  day." 

Of  the  three  or  four  unmistakably  contem- 
porary excerpts,  I  identified  two  only:  this 
from  Matthew  Arnold; — 

"  But  tasks  in  hours  of  insight  will'd 
Can  be  through  hours  of  gloom  fulfiU'd," — 

And  this  from  a  poet  of  singular  distinc- 
tion, though  unknown  of  the  crowd  who  jostle 
each  other  at  the  base  of  Parnassus-Slope: — 

463 


William  Sharp 

"  Seclusion,  quiet,  silence,  slumber,  dreams : 
No  murmur  of  a  breath: 
The  same  still  image  in  the  same  still  dreams, 
Of  Love  caressing  Death." 

What  did  it  all  mean,  I  wondered?  Had 
"Father  Ambrose"  settled  himself  in  Seven 
Dials  for  the  purpose  of  cultivating  among 
the  inhabitants  a  love  of  literature?  The 
idea  was  absurd :  but,  then,  what  could  be  his 
aim? 

Thereupon  I  did  the  wisest  thing:  I  en- 
tered beneath  the  Sign  of  the  White  Poppy. 

A  tall  man,  who  would  have  appeared 
taller  but  for  his  stoop ;  with  long,  thick,  wavy 
white  hair;  eyes  of  a  dark  blue,  extraordi- 
narily vivid,  giving  to  his  whole  physiognomy 
an  aspect  of  youthful  energy;  and  with  thin 
white  hands,  long-fingered  and  delicate;  ad- 
vanced from  an  inner  room,  the  glazed  door 
of  which  he  closed  behind  him. 

"  Are  you  .  .  .  have  you  any  books  for 
sale,  that  I  can  look  at?"  I  began  awk- 
wardly. 

He  smiled,  and  I  admit  that  I  was  won 
straightway. 

"  I  have  a  few  books.  They  are  on  these 
shelves  here  to  your  left.  You  will  see  they 
are  of  all  kinds :  but  all,  in  some  degree,  books 
of  dreamers." 

464 


The  Merchant  of  Dreams 

"  Books  of  dreamers  ?  " 

"Yes.  A  book,  a  history,  a  romance,  an 
essay,  a  poem,  is  of  value  to  me  only  when  it 
creates  an  atmosphere  of  dream." 

"You  are,  forgive  me,  a  strange  book- 
Seller." 

"  I  am  not  a  bookseller.  I  am  a  book-giver. 
Any  one  may  come  here  who  will.  If  a  book 
be  sought  genuinely  for  its  own  sake,  the 
seeker  is  welcome  to  it." 

"  Then  those  quotations  you  have  affixed 
to  your  window  are  not  meant  to  direct  at- 
tention to  the  literary  wares  within  ?  " 

"  If  so,  I  should  surely  take  the  trouble  to 
mention  the  sources  whence  they  come. 
These  sentences  that  you  have  read  are  there 
for  their  own  beauty  and  significance:  and 
stand  or  fall  by  their  inherent  truth.  Of 
what  avail  to  the  weary  creatures  who  live  in 
this  neighbourhood  the  names  of  Plato  and 
Euripides  ?  " 

"  Then  the  excerpts  are  meant  for  the 
passers-by  of  this  region?" 

"Yes:  for  the  passers-by." 

"To  what  end?" 

"  Every  morning  I  change  these  beautiful 
and  helpful  sayings.  Sometimes  they  are 
similar  to  those  you  have  just  scanned :  some- 
times they  are  keen,  vivid  reminders  of  the 

465 


William  Sharp 

beauty  of  earth  and  sky,  of  woodland  or 
shore,  of  the  mountains  or  the  sea. 

"Again,  and  not  infrequently,  they  are 
nothing  but  haunting  rhythms:  some  lovely 
falling  cadence,  some  exquisite  strain. 

"  On  these  occasions  you  would  see  nothing 
in  my  window  but  a  single  excerpt.', 

"  And  they  are  read :  they  are  noted :  they 
are  carried  away  in  a  few  grateful  mem- 
ories? " 

"  It  is  rare  indeed  they  are  not  closely 
scanned  by  at  least  a  score  ■  of  persons  in  a 
day.  Generally,  this  would  be  too  moderate 
an  estimate.  I  daresay  fifty  out  of  a  hun- 
dred passers  do  not  glance  at  them  at  all. 
Another  twenty,  will,  after  an  amused,  or 
contemptuous,  or  puzzled,  or  blankly  incuri- 
ous scrutiny,  resume  their  way,  with  or 
without  mockery,  with  or  without  a  second 
thought,  with  or  without  bewilderment,  each 
in  his  own  kind.  Of  the  remaining  thirty  or 
twenty,  some  will  read  over  and  over  again: 
some  will  take  one  quotation,  and  with  the 
avidity  of  starvation  make  it  theirs,  and  pass 
on  with  a  new  light  on  their  faces  or  a  new 
depth  of  emotion  in  their  weary  eyes:  a  few 
will  even  return:  now  and  again,  a  man  or 
woman  will  enter,  and  speak  with  me." 


466 


The  Merchant  of  Dreams 

"  What  I  have  said  to  you,"  resumed  my 
new  acquaintance,  after  a  pause,  "  would  be 
more  exact  in  the  past  tense.  For  now,  I  am 
glad  to  be  able  to  tell  you,  many  poor  souls 
whose  hunger  and  thirst  are  not  only  the 
hunger  and  thirst  of  the  body,  come  this  way 
regularly.  My  window-lore  has  become  to 
some  as  a  well  of  pure-water,  as  the  shadow 
of  a  green  tree  in  a  parched  land,  as,  after 
long  voyaging,  the  dear  fragrance  of  inland 
odours  blown  seaward.  Many  now  come  to 
me  for  the  only  advice,  the  only  help,  it  is  in 
my  power  to  give." 

Again  there  was  a  pause;  but,  as  I  did  not 
speak,  "  Father  Ambrose  "  resumed. 

"  Then,  too,  there  are  the  few  who  come  to 
me,  as,  perhaps,  you  have  done:  namely,  to 
learn,  if  it  may  be,  something  of  the  secret 
of  creating  beautiful  dreams,  or,  at  least,  to 
obtain  from  me  a  fair  dream  to  leaven  the 
pain,  or  drear  commonplace,  or  tragic  pathos 
of  your  day." 

I  looked  at  the  speaker  in  astonishment. 
There  could  be  no  question  that  he  spoke  in 
earnest.  Was  he  mad,  I  wondered :  or  did  he 
in  truth  mean  what  he  said.  If,  perchance, 
he  could  accomplish  what  he  hinted,  then 
truly  the  chance  which  led  me  to  him  was  a 
golden  one. 

467 


William  Sharp 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  I  remarked  quietly: 
"  Who  and  what  are  you  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  Gabriel  Ambrose.  Few, 
however,  know  this.  Here  I  am  generally 
known  as  *  Father  Ambrose.'  I  think  the 
designation  has  been  given  me  partly  because 
of  my  grey  hairs  and  my  solitude,  or  rather 
isolation,  partly  because  I  and  my  doings,  or 
avoidance  of  '  doings,'  make  me  mysterious  in 
the  eyes  of  my  fellows.  For  the  rest,  I  am 
known  as  '  The  Merchant  of  Dreams.' " 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  actually  sell 
dreams  ?  " 

"  I  barter  dreams.  Show  me  some  fair 
thought,  some  fair  aspiration,  some  fair  hope, 
show  me  the  yearning  in  your  heart,  the  pain 
of  your  bruised  spirit,  and  I  will  give  you 
some  lovely  dream  wherewith  to  make  a 
music  behind  the  passing  hours  and  a  glad 
rapture  in  the  inmost  courts  of  the  spirit." 

"But  how  can  you  do  this  thing?" 

"  Have  you  come  to  try  ?  " 

"  No.  But  now,  gladly,  would  I  put  you  to 
the  test." 

"  Come  in  here,  to  my  room." 

He  opened  the  glass  door,  bowed  courte- 
ously as  I  passed,  and  then  followed  in.  I 
found  myself  in  a  small  room,  which  afforded 
me  a  sense  of  surprise.     It  was  not  that  there 

468 


The  Merchant  of  Dreams 

was  anything  particularly  rare  or  striking  in 
its  furnishing:  for  its  contents  were  har- 
moniously but  almost  austerely  simple.  What 
delighted  and  refreshed  the  eyes  was  the  radi- 
ance without  artificial  light  which  filled  the 
room  as  with  the  breath  of  summer.  There 
was  no  fire,  though  I  saw  that  the  wood  and 
coal  in  the  grate  were  ready  to  be  lit.  Out- 
side, the  grimy  day  was  already  dark,  and  yet 
a  soft  light  lingered,  or  appeared  to  me  to 
linger,  over  the  few  book-shelves,  over  a 
quaint  old  spinet-shaped  piano,  and  over  a 
low  dark  oak-table  whereon  a  vase  of  flowers 
stood.  The  only  sign  of  luxury  was  in  the 
flowers  in  this  vase,  and  in  others,  smaller,  on 
the  book-shelves  and  by  the  dull  ground-glass 
window  at  the  end  of  the  room.  These  were 
not  only  beautiful  but  rare:  delicate  orchids, 
late  roses  of  an  exquisite  bloom  and  a  yet 
more  exquisite  fragrance,  sweet  smelling 
autumnal  violets. 

"  You  are  not  cold  ?  No  ?  The  fire  would 
have  been  lit :  but  I  had  to  be  out  most  of  to- 
day, and  had  returned  only  a  few  minutes  be- 
fore good  fortune  brought  you  here." 

"  If  indeed  you  are  a  merchant  of  dreams 
the  good  fortune  for  me  is  something  more 
than  a  mere  happy  chance." 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  he  began  simply :  when, 

469 


William  Sharp 

as  he  paused,  I  interrupted  him  to  ask  if  he 
would  inform  me  how  it  was  his  room  was  so 
full  of  a  soft  radiance,  fugitive  when  stead- 
fastly regarded,  but  always  resting  with  a 
lovely  light  somewhere. 

He  smiled  gravely,  but  did  not  answer  at 
first.  At  last,  pointing  to  the  blooms,  he 
asked  if  I  did  not  think  that  flowers  gave  a 
lovely  effulgence. 

"  I  have  heard  that  nasturtiums  give  off  a 
flashing  light  at  times,  but  surely  flowers  do 
not  ordinarily  emit  a  radiance  as  some  phos- 
phorescent fungi  do?" 

"  So  most  people  would  say,  no  doubt. 
But  flowers  do.  Only,  they  need  an  atmos- 
phere. These  pale  roses  you  see  in  that  bowl 
in  the  corner  yonder:  can  you  not  see  an  ef- 
fulgence from  them  like  a  faint  flame?  It  is 
gone,  because  your  eyes  have  already  ab- 
sorbed their  just  barely  visible  and,  to  our 
eyes,  evanescent  glow:  but  it  is  there  all  the 
same.  If  our  eyes  were  trained  to  discern 
these  subtle  sidelights  of  nature  we  should 
know  more  both  of  the  chemic  and  psychic 
influences  in  human  life.  For  just  as  these 
frail  and  exquisite  Clarimondes  yonder  will 
not  grow  in  a  clay  soil,  so  they  would  swiftly 
fade  in  the  still  more  fatal  atmosphere  cre- 
ated by  the  distempered  body,  the  distempered 

470 


The  Merchant  of  Dreams 

mind,  the  distempered  soul.  Flowers  are  as 
susceptible  to  adverse  human  influences  as  a 
mirror  is  to  the  breath  of  confined  vapours. 
Have  you  never  noticed,  for  example,  how 
some  people  can  wear  flowers  for  a  whole 
day,  even  for  two  days  or  more,  without  the 
blooms  losing  their  freshness  and  sweetness: 
while  with  others  flowers  of  the  same  kind, 
however  newly  pluckt,  will  fade  and  die  in  a 
quarter  of  the  time,  even  in  an  hour.  It  is 
possible,  in  this  instance,  that  this  may  be  due 
to  the  amount,  or  quality,  of  animal  magnet- 
ism given  off  by  the  wearer.  But  otherwise 
there  is  something  more  than  this.  I  do  not 
hesitate  to  say  that  the  atmosphere  of  a  man's 
impure  heart  and  body,  perhaps  I  might  even 
say  a  man's  corrupt  soul,  will  kill  a  flower  as 
surely  as  any  noxious  gas  could  do.  Let  the 
life  be  clean,  the  inner  life  be  fair  with  fair 
hopes  and  fair  thoughts,  the  brain  be  haunted 
by  lovely  images,  processions,  dreams,  rev- 
eries, and  nature  becomes  man's  ally  in  a 
deeper  sense  than  we  imagine  as  possible. 
There  are  conspiracies  to  aid  as  well  as  to 
baffle  us.  A  room  may,  at  times,  become  as 
though  filled  with  the  loveliest  subdued  sun- 
glow,  and  yet  be  without  illumination  from 
any  fire  or  lamp.  I  say  '  at  times,'  for  it  is 
not  often,  even  with  the  happiest  dreamers, 

47i 


William  Sharp 

that  one  can  know  that  balanced  ser  rl  ;y 
wherein  the  body  and  the  mind  and  the  i  juI 
are  in  perfect  harmony/'  V 

"  Then  you  would  place  health  before  every- 
thing?" -     ; 

"  Yes :  in  the  deep  sense.  Health  is  every- 
thing: just  as  those  who  talk  for  and 
against  a  rigorous  ideal  of  Form  in  poetry 
are  commonly  oblivious  of  the  fact  that,  in 
a  deep  sense,  Poetry  is  Form.  But  the  same 
mind  has  even  more  influence  upon  the  indi- 
vidual life  than  the  sane  body  has.  Properly, 
one  is  the  outgrowth  of  the  other:  but  there 
is  a  serenity,  a  sanity,  which  can  exist  with  a 
weak  or  frail  body.  The  spirit  is  the  domi- 
nant factor:   not  the  stomach." 

"  You  say  you  are  called  *  The  Merchant  of 
Dreams.'  How  would  you  give  me  a  dream? 
Let  me  be  explicit.  I  am  not  an  unhappy 
man,  as  the  common  weal  goes :  but  I  am  not 
happy.  Life  for  me  moves  in  narrow  cir- 
cumstances. I  try  to  keep  many  avenues 
open:  to  have  as  wide  and  alluring  perspec- 
tives as  possible.  But,  for  the  most  part, 
those  '  hours  of  insight '  are  in  sadly  infre- 
quent proportion  to  the  'hours  of  gloom,'  as 
Matthew  Arnold  says  in  those  ever  memorable 
lines  of  his  which  you  have  affixed  to  your 
window.     To-day   I  left  my  lonely  bachelor 

472 


The  Merchant  of  Dreams 

if-dging  in  deep  depression,  partly  physical, 
t  ~tly  mental.  A  northerner,  and  bred  to  the 
hii.s  and  the  sea,  my  heart  sickened  for  the 
loved  places  of  my  childhood  and  youth  and 
best  years.  But  stronger  than  this  was  my 
longing  for  some  relief  from  the  diurnal  com- 
monplace of  my  life.  Unable  to  work,  I  came 
to  seek  an  old  acquaintance,  who,  I  fear,  has 
sunk  from  depth  to  depth  till  submerged  in 
the  deep  waters  of  degradation.  It  was  in 
striving  to  find  some  trace  of  the  present 
whereabouts  of  James  Linton  that  I  was  di- 
rected to  you.  Now,  if  you  can,  tell  me  not 
only  where  Linton  may  be  found:  but  give 
me,  I  pray  of  you,  some  dream  that  will  ease 
my  pain :  that  will  irradiate  what  is  left  of  this 
day,  and  will  enable  me  to  fall  asleep  fanned 
by  the  wings  of  some  new  joy,  or  peace,  or 
hope." 

"  James  Linton  is  dead." 

"Dead!" 

"  Yes.  He  died  about  a  week  ago.  I  knew 
him  slightly.  He  had  sunk  deep  in  those 
waters  you  speak  of.  He  was  a  brilliant  and 
able  youth  when  I  knew  him  first,  when  he 
was  in  the  Embassy  at  Constantinople.  His 
step-brother,  Lord  Ravelston,  was  my  most 
intimate  friend:  and  when  Ravelston  was 
mortally  wounded  in  a  wretched  duel,  some 

473 


William  Sharfc 

twenty  years  ago  now,  he  begged  me,  on  his 
death-bed,  to  look  after  Linton." 

For  a  moment  I  was  puzzled.  I  knew  the 
story  of  Lord  Ravelston's  tragic  end,  and  of 
his  strange  wanderings  throughout  all  civilised 
and  uncivilised  countries.  His  companion 
had  been  a  man  of  even  higher  rank  than  his 
own:  a  man  of  European  repute  for  his  in- 
tellectual as  well  as  for  his  social  qualities: 
at  one  time  a  brilliant  diplomatist:  but  who 
had  suddenly  disappeared  from  the  ken  of 
men  while  still  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  was 
supposed  either  to  have  been  murdered  or  to 
have  followed  the  example  of  his  younger 
brother  (now  a  Cardinal)  and  entered  a  mon- 
astery in  Rome. 

"  You  must  be  the  Marquis  of ?  "  I  ex- 
claimed: an  inconsiderate  as  well  as  a  rude 
remark,  escaped  from  me  before  I  realised 
what  I  had  said. 

"  My  name  is  Gabriel  Ambrose,"  replied  my 
companion  gravely. 

"  I  have  no  past  that  concerns  you  or  any 
one.  As  for  your  friend,  James  Linton,  of 
whom  I  had  seen  nothing  for  many  years,  the 
best  thing  that  could  happen  to  him  happened. 
If  you  wish  to  know  more  about  him  I  can 
give  you  the  name  and  address  of  a  dear  friend 
of  mine  who  attended  him  at  the  last:  a  de- 

474- 


The  Merchant  of  Dreams 

voted  Anglican  priest  who  has  given  his  whole 
life  to  the  unrewarded  and  apparently  thank- 
less task  of  alleviating  the  human  misery  in 
this  part  of  London.  I  call  him  *  the  Forlorn 
Hope/  " 

I  thanked  him,  with  assurances  that  I  would 
take  advantage  of  his  suggestion.  But,  I  ad- 
mit, I  was  now  more  interested  in  what  he  had 
to  tell  me  concerning  dreams  and  dream  life, 
than  in  my  poor  friend ;  who  had  already  ex- 
perienced that  last  of  human  dreams,  which  is 
for  ever  dusked  with  the  gloom  of  the  grave. 

I  feared  I  was  intruding  too  much  on  his 
time:  but  he  would  not  allow  this.  Frankly, 
I  told  him  all  I  could  about  myself:  my  past, 
my  present,  my  hopes,  my  more  or  less  vague 
aspirations.  In  return,  he  told  me  somewhat 
concerning  his  method  in  the  bestowal  of 
dreams.  Much  I  understood:  much,  again, 
was  beyond  my  apprehension.  But  of  one 
thing  I  came  to  feel  sure :  that,  whatever  the 
Merchant  of  Dreams  himself  thought,  none 
could  emulate  him  without  being  in  some  de- 
gree like  him.  Something  of  his  welcome  lore 
he  could  explain :  but  it  was  as  though  a  healer 
of  the  sick  were  to  expound  some  of  the 
mysteries  of  his  hypnotic  powers,  mysteries 
dependent,  for  their  realisation,  upon  the  in- 
nate, trained,  and  concentrated  faculty  which 

475 


William  Sharp 

produced  them.  Such  an  one  might  explain 
to  you  or  me  how  to  cure  many  a  bitter  ill, 
how  to  heal  many  a  wound  of  mind  or  soul 
or  body:  but,  when  we  came  to  emulate  his 
example,  should  we  not  find  that  our  will  was 
a  feeble  autocrat  over  circumstance,  our  in- 
sight inadequate,  our  cherished,  imagined  fac- 
ulty impotent  to  fulfil  the  empty  authority  of 
the  will? 

"  Elsewhere,"  said  my  companion,  vaguely 
indicating  a  box  of  papers,  on  a  shelf  where 
many  portfolios  and  manuscript  cases  lay,  "  I 
have  said  in  detail  what  at  present  I  explain 
somewhat  cursorily.  In  due  time,  many,  I 
hope,  will  not  only  be  able  to  accomplish  what 
I  have  the  great  hapipness  of  doing,  but  will 
have  a  wider  scope,  a  far  more  profound  in- 
fluence. You,  my  dear  friend,  will,  I  trust, 
live  to  see,  in  place  of  one  old  visionary,  vol- 
untarily residing  —  and,  I  may  truly  say,  hap- 
pily expiatively  his  misspent  past  —  in  this 
dreary  district  of  a  dreary  region  in  one  of 
the  dreariest  cities  in  the  world:  scores  of 
men  and  women  who,  for  rare  qualities  of 
mind  and  heart  and  out  of  deep  knowledge 
of  life  and  all  the  potentialities  of  good  and 
evil,  will  be  known  among  their  fellows  as, 
each  in  his  own  degree,  a  Merchant  of 
Dreams." 

476 


The  Merchant  of  Dreams 

Of  what  avail  to  repeat  the  mere  extraneous 
mechanism  wherewith  my  friend  —  for  a  dear 
and  true  friend  he  became  from  that  day  — 
conveyed  to  the  mind  of  another  the  germ  of 
some  lovely  vision  of  fair  dream:  a  germ  to 
expand  and  bloom  forth  either  at  once  or 
speedily,  and  be  as  welcome  as  summer-rain 
in  a  time  of  drought,  or  the  quietudes  of  wind- 
less sunshine  after  long  days  of  storm  and 
gloom.  Rejoice!  That  was  his  magic  word, 
his  creed.  Yet  to  none  did  he  ever  say  quite 
the  same  things :  for  each  he  had  a  particular 
Sesame  that  none  could  apply  but  himself. 

I  was  about  to  rise,  after  that  first  memor- 
able visit,  eager,  yet  reluctant  to  demand  the 
favour  I  craved.  But  he  saw,  and  anticipated 
my  wish. 

"  Look,"  he  said,  as  a  fugitive  ray  of  light, 
I  know  not  whence,  stole  through  the  room: 
"Look,  here  is  one  of  my  messengers  of  joy." 

I  looked  and  looked  again.  The  golden  ray 
had  vanished:  but  my  eyes  rested  against  a 
bloom  of  light  everywhere,  and  my  heart  was 
eased  with  a  new,  strange  gladness. 

Out  of  that  gladness,  out  of  the  vague 
trouble  which  followed,  out  of  a  sweet  counsel 
given  me,  was  born,  a  few  hours  later,  this 
lyric. 


477 


William  Sharp 

In  the  heart  a  bird  of  sunshine 
Singeth  a  sweet  song: 

None  can  do  it  wrong 
Sweet  breath  of  sunshine! 

What  is  this  sunny  bird 

With    the   rainbow-wings, 

That  singeth  of  secret  things 
The  heart  only  hath  heard? 

I  know  not:  but  lo 

The  sun  shines,  and  far 

In  the  blue  sky  a  star 

Leapeth  white  as  snow. 
And  when  the  night-tides  How 

And  the  stars  glisten 

In  the  dark,  I  listen 
And  the  bird  of  moonshine 

Sings,  where  erst 

The  sun-song  burst 
From  the  bird  of  sunshine. 

It  was  a  week  later  before  I  was  able  to  re- 
visit the  Merchant  of  Dreams.  But  in  that 
week  I  learned  secrets  of  a  new  life.  The 
hours  had  all  some  rainbow-tint,  seen  if  for  a 
moment  only,  or  as  half  convincingly  as  the 
levin-light  when  it  lifts  from  cloud  to  cloud 
but  does  not  penetrate  the  dense  vapours. 

I  would  have  been  happy,  but  for  a  sick 
longing  to  be  in  my  own  land,  beside  the  sea, 
the  isles,  the  mountains,  where  as  child  and 
boy  I  had  been  so  happy,  and  had  so  lately  re- 

478 


The  Merchant  of  Dreams 

visited,  only  to  come  back  to  London  with  a 
deeper,  a  more  insatiate  nostalgia. 

Something  of  this  trouble  I  meant  to  ex- 
plain to  my  friend,  but  I  found  it  easier  simply 
to  hand  to  him  these  few  quatrains,  written  at 
one  of  the  rare  times  when  the  mind  had 
triumphed,  and  the  longed-for  had  become  real 
and  near. 

I  hear  the  murmur  of  rivers, 

I  hear  the  ripple  of  streams: 
Sweet  is  the  sound  as  the  music 
Of  dreams. 

I  hear  the  wind  in  the  pinewoods, 

The  wind  on  valley  and  hill, 
Its  voice  in  the  upland  heather 
Whistling  shrill. 

I  hear  the  green  waves  lapping 

Against  the  flute-voiced  shore: 
Dear  seas  that  lave  the  headlands 
Of  Eilanmohr. 

These  summoning  voices  call  me 

Here  in  the  dense-throng'd  street: 
And  I  feel  the  hill-wind  round  me, 
And  the  sea  at  my  feet. 

These  streets,  these  crowds,  these  houses — 

These  fade  in  the  murky  day; 
But  the  wind  and  the  waves  and  the  sunlight 
Stay. 

479 


William  Sharp 

He  understood  at  once,  all  I  had  felt,  all  I 
would  fain  say.  He  smiled  when  I  added  that 
the  worst  sorrow  was,  that  now,  while  the 
ache  of  longing  was  not  dulled,  all  power  of 
dream,  of  inward  realisation,  had  gone.  As 
for  the  relief  of  expression,  that  seemed  an 
impossible  thing. 

But  he  began  to  talk  of  other  things:  first 
about  my  doings  and  projects,  then  about  the 
friend  I  had  come  to  that  neighbourhood  to 
seek ;  and  thereafter  about  yet  another  friend 
whom  we  had  ascertained  we  knew  in  com- 
mon. This  man,  John  Derwent  by  name,  had 
renounced  everything  for  the  sake  of  a  life  of 
passionate  devotion  to  the  most  poor  and 
needy  of  a  region  that  was  not  only  poor  and 
needy  beyond  common  understanding,  but  was 
in  a  most  literal  sense  feted  with  an  atmos- 
phere of  squalid  misery,  or  sordid  vice,  of 
abiding  horror.  We  called  our  heroic  en- 
thusiast "The  Forlorn  Hope,"  though  never 
to  his  face:  for  already  he  staggered  under 
that  bitter  cross  of  martyrdom,  knowledge  of 
the  fact  that  the  battle,  so  long  and  strenu- 
ously fought,  was,  and  had  been  from  the  first, 
and  must  needs  be,  a  losing  battle. 

Then  he  showed  me  the  MSS.  on  which 
he  worked  intermittently.  These  contained, 
he  told  me,  all  his  store  of  dreams,  which  he 

480- 


The  Merchant  of  Dreams 

hoped  to  bequeath  as  a  heritage  to  innumer- 
able men  and  women.  "  My  book  is  not  only 
entitled  '  The  Art  of  Weaving  and  of  Realis- 
ing Dreams/  but  tells  how,  and  when,  and 
where,  this  golden  secret  of  one  may  be  made 
a  common  joy.  For  it  is  a  true  saying,  '  Life 
is  a  dream/  Calderon,  as  you  know,  wrote  a 
play  with  that  title,  and  the  Japanese  have  a 
lyric  drama  so-called,  and  doubtless  divers 
writers  in  divers  lands  have  made  a  similar 
use  of  the  phrase.  But  the  truer  reading 
should  be :  '  Life  is  a  dream  within  a  dream.' 
For  happiness  is  only  for  the  dreamer: 
though  there  be  many  dreamers,  and  many 
dreams,  and  many  ways  whereby  dreams  are 
entertained,  or  can  be  fashioned,  or  may  be 
allured.  You  remember  what  I  have  before 
said  to  you?  Let  no  awaking  be  without  its 
rainbow-shimmer,  let  no  sleep-faring  be  with- 
out its  moonshine  glamour.  This,  surely,  we 
can  all  do:  all  who  would  have  it  so.  But 
more  than  this  is  needful.  The  spaces  of  the 
noontide  must  be  filled.  The  wide,  featureless 
expanses  in  every  diurnal  span  must  be 
peopled,  coloured,  transformed.  No  hour 
should  come,  unattended  by  its  dream,  though 
that  be  fugitive  as  summer-lightning,  shadowy 
as  a  tall  aspen  in  mist,  intangible  as  the  falling 
of  the  dew.     For,  truly,  the  dreamless  hours 

481 


William  Sharp 

are  dead-sea-apples:  surely,  mayhap,  but  of 
dust  and  ashes  within.  Yet  I  would  not  have 
you,  or  any  one,  what  is  called  '  a  mere 
dreamer/  It  is  easy  to  make  a  fetish  of  a 
god,  and  in  every  worshipper  the  idolater  is 
dormant.  Dream  while  you  act:  act  while  you 
dream.  What  a  little  sentence  in  which  to 
sum  up  all  the  long  queit,  the  long  travail,  the 
whole  store  of  wisdom  of  three  score  years !  " 

When  I  rose  to  say  goodnight,  the  room  was 
already  charged  with  the  fog,  which  had 
filtered  through  every  possible  crevice.  Out- 
side, there  was  the  sound  of  sodden  rain. 
Dull  cries  fell  against  the  permeable,  dis- 
coloured walls  of  vapour.  The  dreary  squalid 
street  was  half  deserted,  and  was  the  silenter 
for  the  painful  absence  of  the  wind,  not  an 
eddy,  not  a  breath  of  which  penetrated  that 
dismal  region. 

But  I  left,  radiant.  A  golden  dream  had 
been  given  to  me  by  my  friend:  a  dream  to 
keep  that  night,  and  many  days  to  follow, 
sweet  and  beautiful  with  a  glad  serenity. 


482 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

The  volume  of  "  Dramatic  Interludes,"  entitled 
Vistas,  was  originally  published  by  Frank  Murray  in 
his  Regent  Series  (The  Moray  Press,  Derbyshire) 
in  1894.  A  few  months  later,  the  succeeding  vol- 
ume in  the  series  was  Pharais:  a  Romance  of  the 
Isles,  the  first  of  the  writings  issued  by  William 
Sharp  over  the  signature  *  Fiona  Macleod  " ;  and  Vis- 
tas is  considered  by  some  of  his  readers  to  be  a  link 
between  the  two  methods  of  his  thought  and  work. 
In  the  dedicatory  Foreword  written  for  the  Amer- 
ican edition  (Stone  &  Kimball,  Chicago,  1894)  the 
author  has  explained  his  intention  in  these  "dramatic 
interludes."  Of  the  contents  "  The  Black  Madonna  " 
appeared  originally  under  the  pseudonymn  W.  S. 
Fanshawe,  in  the  one  number  of  The  Pagan  Review 
(August,  1892)  which  was  written  entirely  by  Wil- 
liam Sharp,  as  editor  and  contributors;  "The  Birth 
of  a  Soul"  was  printed  in  The  Chapbook  (Chicago, 
Sept.  15,  1894)  ;  "  The  Whisperer "  appeared  first  in 
the  American  edition  of  Vistas,  and  was  printed  sep- 
arately in  The  Theosophical  Review  (London,  Feb- 
ruary, 1908)  and  is  now  for  the  first  time  issued  in 
book  form  in  England. 

The  three  Tales  in  Part  II  were  published  in  1896 
by  Messrs.  A.  Constable  &  Co.,  in  a  volume  entitled 
"  Madge  o'  the  Pool,"  together  with  one  other  tale, 
"The  Coward."  The  American  edition,  under  the 
title  of  "The  Gypsy  Christ"  (Stone  &  Kimball)  was 
published  a  year  earlier,  and  contained  other  three 
tales:    "A   Venetian   Idyll,"   "The   Graven   Image," 

483 


William  Sharp 

"Froken  Bergliot."  It  is  in  accordance  with  the 
wishes  of  the  author  that  these  four  tales  are  not 
included   in  the  present  volume. 

The  "  Prose  Imaginings  "  in  Part  III,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  fragment  "  The  Merchant  of  Dreams," 
formed  the  contents  of  the  volume  entitled  Ecce 
Puella,  published  in  1896  (by  Elkin  Matthew)  in 
which  year  also  appeared  The  Washer  of  the  Ford, 
Green  Fire,  and  From  the  Hills  of  Dream,  by  "  Fiona 
Macleod."  In  a  note  to  Ecce  Puella  William  Sharp 
explained  that: 

"  Ecce  Puella  "  comprises  all  that  the  author  cares 
to  disengage  from  Fair  Women  in  Painting  and 
Poetry,  an  illustrated  monograph  which  he  under- 
took at  the  instance  of  the  late  P.  G.  Hamerton, 
for  the  Portfolio  Series.  It  has,  of  course,  been 
reworked  into  this,  its  essential  form.  '*  Love  in  a 
Mist "  originally  was  published  with  illustrations  in 
Good  Words.  "Fragments  from  the  Lost  Journals 
of  Piero  di  Cosimo  "  appeared  some  years  ago  (1890) 
in  two  consecutive  numbers  of  The  Scottish  Art 
Review. 


484 


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